Fingerprints
by Deanish
Summary: Hunting becomes more difficult for Sam and Dean when the FBI starts a hunt of its own.
1. Chapter 1

"Winchester

Note: First of all, let me warn you that my research for this was kind of spotty. A lot of the "life on the lam" ideas are coming from an article in The New York Times Magazine called "Fugitive" by Jim Dwyer. It was in the Feb. 11 issue, and it was fascinating, so if you're interested, go read it. I also read a lot of and about the FBI's Most Wanted list, but my version of the inner workings of the FBI comes from old X-Files episodes.

Second, as always, thanks to Mazza for her help in making this readable.

And last, I'm not going to beg, but I would like to know what you think, one way or another.

On with the show …

Chapter 1

"Winchester?"

Sam didn't freeze – that would have been a dead giveaway, and he'd been practicing. He and Dean both continued down the street without a hitch in their steps. But without a word between them, without even a glance, they let themselves start to casually drift apart. As if their proximity had been coincidental, rather than intentional.

"Sam Winchester!"

The voice was more insistent that time, more sure of itself, and Sam fought the urge to break into a run. Instead, he ducked down the first side street he came to and crouched down behind the nearest dumpster. As quietly as possible – which, as a Winchester, was pretty darn quiet – he slipped his wallet out of his pocket and took out the small square of sandpaper he'd recently begun keeping there. He peered through the crack between the dumpster and the brick wall behind it as he began rubbing the sandpaper between his fingertips.

A tall blond appeared at the mouth of the alley looking confused, and Sam bit back a sigh of relief. He recognized the guy. Brent something or other. From Stanford. He'd tried to recruit Sam for some fraternity his freshman year.

Brent frowned down the alley for a few more seconds then turned to look back down the street, double checking that Sam wasn't still out there after all. Not seeing him, he turned back. Sam tensed again and started looking for a weapon – recognizing the guy didn't really mean anything.

He had the gun in his waistband but no way was he shooting the guy. He just needed to knock him out long enough to put some distance between them. But he'd also rather not get close enough to do it with his fist – no reason to give the guy a closer look.

There was a piece of pipe not too far away. Sam winced at the thought of using it, but picked it up anyway. A couple more steps and the guy would be at his hiding spot.

Sam tightened his grip and swallowed hard.

But Brent stopped.

"Sam?" he called.

Sam held his breath.

Brent waited a second, then shrugged and turned back toward the street.

Sam collapsed back against the wall, listening to the footsteps fade away. He squeezed his eye shut and murmured a quick thanks to whoever was listening – he wasn't real particular these days. Then he took out his cell phone and pulled up his contact list. He selected the first entry: Bob. Let it ring once, hung up and pressed redial.

"Rob's Surf Shop – Cowabunga Dude," Dean answered, sounding, of all things, bored.

"Dude. It's Bob, not Rob. Bob."

"Like a guy named Bob would have a surf shop."

"Who said it had to be a surf shop? Make it a pizza place. Bob would have a pizza place."

"Bob wouldn't have a pizza place," Dean said scornfully. "Besides, I want a surf shop." 

"But Rob doesn't match the name on my contact list."

"So change your list."

"But Bob is nice and high up in the alphabet. I'd have to scroll through more than half of the names to get to Rob."

Dean snorted. "Like you have more than four friends, anyway."

"Dean –" Sam said, finally losing his patience.

"Uph! Looks like you're doing the laundry tonight," Dean broke in gleefully.

Sam's mouth snapped shut as he realized he'd been had. How many times was he going to let himself be baited into extra chores?

Dean didn't wait for him to think up an argument. "So I take it we're clear?" he said instead.

Sam swallowed a sigh but didn't deny it. "Yeah, I think we're clear. It was somebody from school. He gave up looking after a second and went in the other direction."

"We still oughta high-tail it," Dean said.

"Yeah. Give it a few minutes, though. Might as well wait 'til it's dark to head back out in the open."

"All right, then. I'll meet you back in the parking lot 15 minutes after sunset."

"'Kay," Sam agreed, and they both hung up without goodbyes.

After tucking his phone back into his pocket, Sam settled back against the dumpster, trying to find a more comfortable position. It would be a good 30 minutes until sunset, and then another 10 before he needed to head back. He couldn't believe this had happened again. Turns out you don't know how many friends you have until you're wanted by the FBI. Then they seem to come out of the woodwork, lurking around every corner, just waiting to turn you and your brother in.

Of course, he actually had no idea whether Brent knew he was wanted or had just spotted an old friend. How would he have known, really? Sam doubted the man had gone to Stanford just to graduate and work for Podunk, Louisiana's finest, and who besides cops and other law enforcement would have run across his arrest warrant?

Better safe than sorry, though. He and Dean would leave town as soon as they met back up. At least they weren't on a hunt this time. Running they could handle. But leaving that woman at the mercy of that poltergeist last time had been … well, hard didn't even seem to cover it. Especially for Dean. They had called Bobby, who had been understanding and willing to come down and take care of it. But this was their _job_. And if they couldn't do their job, then they really were just petty criminals, running around living off of stolen credit cards, too shiftless to get real jobs.

Except they couldn't reasonably be expected to get real jobs, could they? Illegal immigrants had a better chance of getting work than they did. People take one look at healthy, drug-free white men unwilling to put their name on the tax roll and know something's fishy.

Sam pushed that thought aside. There was no reason to rehash that now-very-familiar ground. They were doing everything they could think of to fly under the radar, so he'd just have to hope it would be enough until they could come up with a more permanent plan.

OOO

The cleaning ladies had just plain stopped coming by Victor's desk. There were two groups of them: the ones who came by around 10 a.m. to empty trash cans and clean the coffee corner, and the night shift that started in around 11 p.m. with the vacuuming and mopping and spraying of stuff. For the past few weeks, Victor had been at his desk for both of them and had made it clear that he did not have the time to lift his feet so they could sweep under the desk. And they sure as hell better not touch a single paper within a 4-feet radius.

As a result, when the overflowing trashcan was sent sprawling for the third time in less than an hour, he had no one to blame but himself. Still, he wasn't the sort to let that stop him.

"God damnit. Fuckin' god-damned cleaning crew. Can't get a fuckin' god-damned thing right," he mumbled under his breath as he tried to cram the balled-up papers and weeks-old sandwiches back into the bulging trash bag.

"Agent Henrikson?"

Victor froze and muttered one more "fuck" before straightening and turning to face his boss. Who was looking less than impressed by Victor's outburst.

"Sir?"

"My office," the man said. "Now."

Victor ground his teeth a bit, but followed without objection. Thirty seconds later, he was sliding into a chair across from Assistant Director Dave West, working on looking unconcerned.

"Everything … OK?" West began. Victor wasn't going to fall for the neutral tone.

"Perfectly, sir," he said.

West nodded noncommittally. "So the cursing, the gnats gathering around your trash can, the fact that you've been wearing the same shirt for the past three days, that's all just …"

He trailed off, leaving it to Victor to fill in the blank. Victor didn't take him up on the offer. 

"Just what, sir?"

That was enough for West to give up the understanding superior act. "Henrikson, what's going on?"

"Just doing my job, sir. Trying to catch a killer."

West stared him down for a moment, letting him know that he knew that Victor knew that he knew that was plain old BS. Then he dropped the confrontational approach altogether and played the old friend card.

"Victor, come on. You're scaring the cleaning ladies. This case is obviously getting to you. I think you need to step back a little, take a few days off. Or, hell, a few hours. Just, you know, catch your breath. Get some perspective … Take a shower."

The attempt at humor fell utterly flat. Victor held his expression steady, but couldn't quite keep the chill out of his voice when he answered.

"No thank you, sir," he said, enunciating each word carefully. "I really wouldn't feel comfortable going on vacation with a murderer on the loose."

West made sour a face at him. "Come on. You know better than that. We've got more than 300 agents in this division. I'm sure we could find one to take over on this for a few weeks. Everyone needs a break once in awhile."

"On a regular case, I'd be inclined to agree with you," Victor said. "But since I can't seem to convince you to take the Winchesters seriously, I'd have trouble relaxing at the beach. I'd spend the whole time worrying that I'd come back and find you'd killed the hunt altogether."

West didn't actually roll his eyes at that, but it looked to Victor like he had to concentrate on not doing so. "Don't be so dramatic. You know I wouldn't kill it altogether. But I'll admit, I'm still not convinced this is worth the resources you're putting into it. This Dean Winchester – how many people do you really have solid proof that he murdered? Two? Three? That's hardly even a serial killer. And it certainly doesn't warrant its very own SWAT team."

Victor feigned surprise. "I thought you trusted me, Dave. I told you, we only have him dead to rights on the St. Louis murders – and attempted murder, don't forget – and the Milwaukee bank girl. But when you follow the string of credit card frauds, breaking and enterings and _grave desecrations_ across the U.S., you see that he leaves a trail of bodies behind."

"Most of which have been ruled accidental or natural," West argued, his voice taking on a strident note despite his best effort.

"So you think that's just a coincidence? That where a known murderer goes, bodies pile up? Think about the bank Dave. I don't know what Dean and Sam were doing there to begin with, but when Dean saw an opportunity, he took it. They were _hostages_ for God's sake, and then they took over. What these guys do is like the definition of crimes of convenience. They roll into town, hear about … some disappearances at a local swimming hole. Then they use that to cover up their own crimes. Drown a guy in the same place and then play innocent – 'Couldn't have been us, officer: We _weren't even here _when the disappearances started.'"

West looked at him skeptically, shrugged and shook his head. "It just … seems far fetched is all. I mean, how many times could they realistically get away with something like that?"

Victor leaned forward and pinned West with his most intense stare. The one that routinely convinced criminals he could read their minds.

"How many? I'd say dozens."

"Dozens," West scoffed. "Come on man. The guy's not even 30." 

"Dozens," Victor repeated. "Easy. He may only be 27, but by my estimate, he's been doing this for about 17 years, maybe more."

"Seventeen."

"At least."

"So what? He started killing when he was in elementary school?"

"He had plenty of help."

"The brother? Isn't he even younger?"

"Not the brother. Not then anyway. The father. Ex Marine. He caught the tail end of Vietnam, then was in Lebanon for the civil war."

"You're thinking he came back messed up?"

"Maybe. Maybe he was already messed up. But four years later his wife died in some mysterious fire that he and the two boys made it out of."

West shrugged. "That happens," he said.

"The fire started in the baby's nursery, and the guy was able to save the baby but not the woman."

West shrugged again, but a little less dismissively. Victor went in for the kill.

"And 22 years later – _to the day_ – the same thing happened to the youngest's girlfriend."

That got West's attention. "Same thing?"

"Mysterious fire, everyone got out but her."

"But the youngest? I thought you said the older one, this Dean, was the real monster."

"He was there. I think he did it. Not sure exactly why then – the kid had been living with the girl for almost a year, apparently not in contact with the other two. Least, the people who knew him didn't think he was. Some said they'd never even heard of a brother until the girl's funeral. I'm thinking either the girl did something to make the kid mad enough to call his brother to take care of it, or Dean decided he needed a partner and this was his way of bringing baby brother back into the fold. Considering Sam had a law school interview planned for the next day, my guess is the latter."

West made a skeptical noise, but didn't interrupt.

"They'd gone on a road trip that weekend to Jericho, California. Apparently the first time they'd gotten together in more than three years. While there, Dean was picked up on suspicion of murder. He escaped, and he and Sam headed back to Palo Alto, where I'm betting Sam planned to stay for another four or five years, before his brother immolated his girlfriend." 

"If that were true, why would Sam go with him? Why wouldn't he turn him in?"

It was Victor's turn to shrug. "Fear? Familial loyalty? Don't know and don't really care. Whatever it started out as, Sam's in it now, too. Not as deep as Dean, but getting there. You ask me, they're both monsters."

Dave stared at him for a long time, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"OK," he said. "Fine. Keep going. But after you take a shower, OK?"

Victor's face was just splitting into a smile when there was a rap on the door behind him. Dan Johnson stuck his head in.

"Henrikson? Just got a call. Friend of Sam Winchester's thinks he spotted him in Louisiana."

OOO

Sam was trying to shift into a more comfortable position without putting a hand or foot into one of the rancid puddles surrounding him when the first police car rolled slowly past the alley. He didn't wait to see if it was a coincidence.

In seconds, he was climbing the nearest fire escape, cell phone in hand.

"_Bob's_ Beer, Bait and Ammo – howdy, y'all," Dean answered. Sam resisted the urge to comment.

"Hey, remember what I said about us being clear?"

"Yeah …" Dean said, immediately sobering.

"Uh, maybe not so much? Cop just drove past." He spared a moment to look down. "And there goes another one."

"Where're you at?"

"Climbing the side of a building on Church Street." 

"Oh, that's not conspicuous." 

"Well, I'm open to suggestions. Brent saw me going down this alley. I can't stay here, and walking out into the po-po parade doesn't seem like the best idea, either."

"All right, all right. Just sit tight, Spidey. Me and the Batmobile will be there in a minute, and you can just jump right into your getaway car."

"What? Dean, no –"

"Uph! Now you're cleaning the guns tonight, too!"

"Would you just shut up for a second? You can't just drive into the middle of a stakeout to pick me up. You go ahead and start heading back, and I'll climb over the roof and down the other side. By that time the sun should have set, and I'll only be another block away from the parking lot."

Sam had reached the top floor of the office building he'd been scaling, and the metal staircase gave way to a ladder.

"I gotta' go, OK? I need both hands. Just stay out of sight and I'll meet you as soon as possible."

"What? Sam – "

"Uph!" Sam mocked. "_Now_ who's doing laundry?" He hung up without waiting for a reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: For aesthetic reasons, I went back to chapter 1 and changed their current location to Louisiana, not Indiana

Note: The long lists of Winchester aliases would not have been possible without Super-Wiki, found at supernatural dot oscillating dot net.

And finally: Thanks, thanks, thanks to Mazza. She deserves the credit if anyone decides not to stop reading after this chapter.

Chapter 2

Dean watched Sam creep around the corner of a building, trying not to feel so tired of all this. He snickered a little when Sam studiously looked both ways before he crossed the street to the parking lot, and that helped. Might have been a little unfair, though, Dean reflected. Just as likely that Sam was checking for black and whites as channeling his inner first grader. With their lives, who could tell anymore? And that thought brought him right back to tired.

Seemed like all they ever did these days was run, and Dean did not like running. From the demon, from the Feds. It was getting hard to fit actual jobs in between all the hiding out, laying low, watching their backs.

'See?' he thought, as Sam stopped and turned in a circle looking lost. Poor Sammy's so stressed out he can't even remember where we parked.

He really wanted to tap the horn when Sam blindly passed right by him – that, after all, would be really funny. But in the interest of not drawing undue attention to his little brother while said little brother was standing unprotected, out in the open, with a bunch of cops with guns hunting for him, he decided against it. Reluctantly. Instead he stuck his head out the window and hissed a low "psstt" to alert Sam to his position.

Sam zeroed in on him immediately, then, and made a beeline for the passenger door.

"That's some mad trackin' skillz you got goin' on there, bro," Dean teased, trying to salvage what he could of the situation, seeing as how he hadn't honked. "Getting a little rusty?"

Sam didn't seem in the mood to joke, though. "Guess I'm still looking for the car," he said.

Aannd back to tired.

Three weeks ago they had stood in front of a Lincoln, Maine, storage unit and watched in silence as the Impala disappeared behind the rolling garage door. The atmosphere really wasn't all that different from that of their father's funeral pyre. It twisted Dean's gut to put the lock on that door, but they had agreed there was nothing for it. That car was made to draw attention, and attention was one thing they didn't need right now.

Black GMC trucks, on the other hand, were a dime a dozen – especially in the more rural areas they had been trying to stick to lately. With a little artfully slung mud – which wouldn't warrant note on a truck – they didn't even have to remember to keep changing the license plates. No question, they were glad they had let Bobby talk them into keeping their dad's truck. And in some ways it was kind of nice, the connection to John.

The thing was, though, he and Sam just weren't truck people. Truck people chewed tobacco and wore ball caps with the John Deere logo. Ball caps gave Dean hat hair.

And how dumb do you look rolling into town with an Iron Butterfly bass line blaring in a truck?

Not that he could, anyway. The truck didn't even have a tape deck. It had a CD player. Which meant they'd been listening to way too much of Sam's music lately. There were so many things Dean missed about his car.

"So," he said, making another effort to shake off the melancholy. "Next move?"

"They're probably putting up a road block," Sam said – unnecessarily in Dean's opinion.

"Probably," Dean confirmed.

"So. Hotel?"

Dean nodded slowly.

"I saw a Motel 6 down the highway a ways," Sam offered.

Dean scrunched his nose up and cocked his head to the side, signaling his misgivings.

"What, you and Tom Bodett having issues?"

Dean shot him a glare.

"Hey, he's leaving the light on for us," Sam said.

The glare held steady.

"Fine. Where do you want to stay?"

Dean was ready for that question – he'd had plenty of time to think it through while waiting. He pointed across the street and down a bit to the building Sam had just climbed down. "There," he said.

Sam peered at the place in confusion, then looked doubtfully back at Dean. "The Church Street Inn?"

"Yup."

"Uh … You do realize that, A, that's one step above a bed and breakfast, and you know how you feel about bed and breakfasts; and, B, there are already four – count them, four – cop cars parked below it?"

"It's called hiding in plain site. It's smart, and it's fun. I mean, who'd ever think to look for us there?" He grinned, watching Sam take in the scrollwork balconies overlooking the cobblestone street. He could practically see Sam coming around.

"You got me there," Sam said with a shrug. "So, you want to go first or me?"

"You go. I'll watch your back from here."

Sam gave him his patented I'm-a-big-boy look but didn't argue.

"And hey –" Dean hissed as Sam pulled the door open. Sam turned back around. "Get us one of the rooms above that street."

That earned him Sam's how-are-you-not-already-in-a-nuthouse look, but still no argument. Dean watched as Sam walked back across the parking lot and melted into the shadows again.

OOO

It took Victor and his team four and a half hours to fly from D.C. to Shreveport, and then another 50 minutes to drive to Natchitoches. By the time he got there, the search had grown decidedly sluggish, though the highway he came in on did at least seem to have some kind of checkpoint. When he got to Church Street, he didn't waste time before making his displeasure known.

"Who can give me a status report?" he barked as he strolled up to a lose group of un-uniformed – but still easily identifiable – officers. They'd been laughing at some joke, but stopped to eye him as he approached.

"And you are?" drawled a man wearing a dark suit and a sheriff's star.

"The head of this here posse," Victor replied dryly. He slowly drew his badge out and made sure everyone got a good long look. "I've been tracking the Winchesters for the past three months."

The sheriff raised his eyebrows and swept his gaze around the group, sharing some inside joke that made Victor's insides boil. "Three months, huh? I usually get rid of my hunting dogs if it takes them longer than three hours to track down their quarry."

There was some general snickering that Victor ignored. "Well sir," he said instead, "seems to me you've been after the Winchesters almost six now. Any luck?"

The sheriff's smirk died what looked to be a bitter death. "Agent Henrikson, I hate to tell you, but you've wasted your time coming down here. Those boys aren't here. It was a case of mistaken identity."

"Oh really? And how'd you determine that?"

"By getting the PD, the sheriff's department and your own Shreveport field office agents out here to comb the town for the last six hours. Nobody's seen them 'cept for that one boy who thought he might have seen a guy he used to kinda know years ago, who he heard was wanted for murder."

"Sheriff, have you even looked at the picture of the Winchester brothers? Bothered to read their descriptions? Sam Winchester is 6'4. Kind of hard to mistake, don't you think? These boys tend to stick out."

"If that's so, don't you think we'd have found them by now if they were here?"

'Maybe if I thought you could be trusted to find your own dick, sheriff,' Victor thought. But instead said, "The Winchesters are slick, and they've gotten out of tighter spots than this little tea party. Still, I make do with what I've got. You've got the roadblocks up?"

"Yeah." The edge to the answer let Victor know he wasn't making any friends here. But that wasn't especially surprising.

"As I said on the phone, they drive a classic Impala, so I'm betting that if they haven't been spotted leaving town, they're still here. Have your guys start checking local lodgings. They'll have gotten a room for the night."

"Boy," the sheriff growled, "this is a tourist town. You know how many hotels, motels, bed and breakfasts, inns and guest houses we've got? We don't have unlimited resources here."

Victor didn't bother hiding his disgust. "Sheriff, do you know how many people these boys have killed?"

"Then there's the fact that most of them changed shifts a few hours ago," the sheriff went on without any indication that Victor's statement had made an impact. "Even if they were in town and at one of our hotels, chances are the person who checked them in and could tell us have gone home for he day."

Victor held the man's stare for a moment before relenting a bit to logic with a stiff nod. "Start at the bottom with the cheapest, greasiest roach motels you can find. Look for a black, '67 Chevy Impala, and check for guests registered as James Hetfield, Ronnie Van Zant, any classic rock star you can think of. And show them the pictures – especially if it's a girl you're talking to. The girls always remember them."

OOO

Dean snickered despite himself, and Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

"They'll hear you," he hissed.

"Has this guy got us pegged or what?" Dean cackled without concern.

They were lying on their bellies, munching on minibar snacks. They were inches from the edge of the balcony, and by lifting their heads just a little they had a pretty good view of the law enforcement powwow going on under them. All they needed now was water balloons.

They'd been watching for hours - actually, it was funny how fast armed men combing the streets for you could get dull. Or maybe that was just a Winchester thing, finding regular old people with guns a little tame.

Then the new guy showed up. Dean immediately recognized the clipped, authoritative tone as that of the FBI agent he'd talked to in Milwaukee, and at first they'd been concerned.

But Dean had called their plan well, and the worry died out quickly. And really, even if he was apparently hoping to bring them in dead or alive, the agent had earned a place in Dean's heart with the 'girls always remember them' comment.

Even Sam had to admit that was pretty funny. He chuffed and flipped over onto his back as the group below started to break up. It didn't take long for his smile to fade, though.

"You know," he started, immediately wiping the grin off of Dean's face as well, "we should split up."

Dean moaned, turning over onto his side to face Sam. "Man," he said, stretching the word into two syllables. "Don't start that again,"

"You heard the guy," Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice low enough that they wouldn't be heard down below. "We're every bit as conspicuous as the car was, and being together just makes it worse. You've got a girl in every port who could – _and probably would_ – pick you out in a line up, and I'm freakin' six and a half feet tall."

"Plus hair," Dean interjected helpfully.

"And checking into hotels all bloody?" Sam barreled on, ignoring the hair comment. "That's not exactly keeping it low key."

"Yeah, I get what you're saying, man," Dean said as he lay back. "But I don't really see how splitting up would change any of that."

Sam cut his eyes his Dean's direction, letting him know that he didn't buy that, even if he wasn't going to bother calling his bluff.

"If all the wanted posters show two men, then it's better to not be two men. Even if they figure it out eventually, it forces them to divide their resources. Divide and conquer, man."

Dean frowned into the night sky, thinking about that. It wasn't anything new – he'd been thinking about that since … at least since Milwaukee, maybe longer. And it always made him grind his teeth. This was his fault. He was the one slow enough to let a shapeshifter steal his face. And he was the idiot who got caught red handed at a crime scene like a freakin' rookie. He still winced every time he thought about that.

That lady cop in Baltimore was right. Dean had messed up, and he was pulling Sam down with him.

Of course, if fixing that was just a matter of packing Sam off to school and going underground on his own, he'd do it in a heartbeat. If splitting up was safer for Sam, then definitely. But it wasn't like Stanford was going to let Sam back in now. And even if they would, who but Dean was going to be there to monitor his dreams for signs of yellow-eyed boogie men? Splitting up would only be safer for Dean now. So there would be no splitting up. He didn't want them to be the ones who were divided and conquered.

"Naw," Dean said finally. "What we need is a disguise."

There was a beat of silence, then Sam said warily, "A disguise."

"Yup." 

"Like … what? Glasses and a big nose?" 

"Yes, Sam, exactly like that," Dean sneered.

"Well what then?" Sam whined, all little-brother indignation. "And that's another load of laundry for you, by the way."

Dean ignored that last part. "I don't know, man. Like … maybe we should grow beards."

"Beards," Sam repeated.

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"_Yeah_."

Sam made a face. "I don't know. Beards just … scream 'hiding something' to me. People on the run always grow beards."

Dean pushed back up into a better position for glaring. "What?" he said, too loudly. He took a furtive look around and dropped the volume a few notches. "Who else have you ever known who was on the run? Besides – Dad had a beard."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and Dad was hiding something, wasn't he?"

Well. Dean couldn't really argue with that. He settled on scowling, instead. "I don't hear you coming up with a better plan," he groused.

Sam turned thoughtful at that. He always responded well to a challenge. Dean went back to studying the stars, knowing there was no point trying to break in on Sam's thought process.

"Maybe you're right," Sam said, after a long silence.

Dean sat up, startled. "Where's the tape recorder?" he asked, frantically.

Sam shot him an exasperated look but continued. "But I'm not growing a beard."

"You can't grow a beard, can you? That's your problem with the beard idea – you haven't hit the point in puberty where you develop facial hair."

"Whatever. You just don't want to have to shave anymore. Just wait and see how many girls shoot you down once you're imitating Abe Lincoln."

"So we are growing beards?"

"You can grow a crumb catcher if you want to, but don't count _me_ in on that plan."

"Hey, you're the one with friends all over the whole damn country. What are you going to do?"

Sam looked away, shiftily avoiding Dean's eyes. "I'll … cut my hair," he said, feigning nonchalance.

Dean may have dislocated his jaw, it dropped so fast. "Oh. My. God. Seriously, _where_ is that freakin' tape recorder?"

"Shh!" Sam warned. "And also, shut up."

"Oh, no no no," Dean laughed. "After all the shouting matches I had to listen to every time Dad told you to get a haircut, you don't just get to pretend like that's no big deal."

"It's not a big deal," Sam grouched.

"Uh, I believe your exact words were 'I'd sooner sell my soul.'"

"Yeah, well, seems like that's starting to look like a real possibility, so why the hell not cut my hair while I'm at it."

Dean stopped laughing.

"That's not funny, Sam."

"Another load for you," Sam said, but without any triumph behind it. He pushed himself up and headed back inside the room. Dean sighed, then followed him.

He stopped just inside the doorway surveying the mess they'd made of the room. Even though they'd only been there a few hours, they'd already managed to mark their territory. Boots and guns were peeking out from beneath discarded shirts flung far and wide, empty Coke cans clustered on the nightstands and if you knew where to look, you could see miniature wards carved into the door and window frames. You didn't even have to look closely to see the salt.

Dean usually found the overall effect kind of … well, whatever the manly word for cozy was. But Sam didn't seem to be feeling the homey vibe.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"Where's your electric trimmer thingy?" Sam answered from the bathroom, where he seemed to be digging through Dean's duffle.

"What, you want to do it now?"

"Yeah, why not? I'll cut it, and then we can bleach it blond with hydrogen peroxide from the first aid kit."

"Bleach it _blond_?"

"Yeah. I'd say we'd bleach yours blond, too, but it's too light for that to make much of a difference. We should dye it black instead. Your beard, too, when there's enough of it to dye."

"Whoa whoa whoa. Nobody's dying or bleaching anything."

"Why not? You're the one who said we needed disguises," Sam said, still digging.

This was all going just a little too fast for Dean. One minute he'd been teasing – _teasing_ – Sam about growing a beard, and the next, Sam was playing makeover. It was more than Dean could reasonably be expected to take. "Sam, stop!" he bellowed.

They both froze.

Sam had finally looked up from the bag, and his eyes darted from Dean to the open balcony door and back.

"You think they heard?" Dean whispered.

Sam shrugged, eyes wide. He inched over to the sliding doors and peeked around the curtain. There were only two cops left on the street below, but they were both looking up at the hotel suspiciously. One said something to the other, who nodded and headed for the hotel's main entrance.

"Oh yeah. I think they heard."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

"What name did you register under?"

Sam looked sheepish. "Ace Frehley."

Dean groaned.

"What?" Sam protested. "You're the one who applied for the credit card."

"Get your stuff together. We've got to get out of here."

Sam obeyed, and – mess or no – they were ready to go in a minute and a half. Dean peered out the peephole in the door, but couldn't see much of anything. "Man, I wish we'd thought of disguises sooner," he sighed.

"Yeah, well, our next stop will be a beauty salon."

"Dude. It's a barber. Men don't do beauty salons."

"Whatever, just get moving."

Dean cracked the door open and stuck his head out into the hall. There he was. Coming up the stairs with what looked to be the hotel manager. Dean choked down a swear and pulled his head back in.

"He's right there," he hissed to Sam.

"Shit," Sam said again. They just looked at each other for a second. Then: "_This_ is why we've got to learn to stop saying each others' names."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. "We'll practice all night _after_ we get out of here. Now just … get in the bathtub."

Sam gave him a scornful look but didn't argue. Over the next few minutes, the sounds of knocking followed by muffled conversations moved slowly up the hall before arriving at their door. "At least he's not a Kiss fan," Dean whispered. "He'd have come straight to our room." Sam planted a heel right on Dean's toe, and Dean bit back a grunt.

They heard the snick of the key card in the lock, and the door clicked open. There was some muffled poking around, and then the steps moved toward the bathroom. They tensed.

Sam was closest to the hand that appeared on the shower curtain, so he threw the first punch. Half a second later, Dean was jumping over him and heading for the hotel manager. Thirty seconds after that, they had both re-shouldered their bags and were creeping down the hall.

"I hate doing that," Sam said quietly. "It makes me feel like we _are_ criminals."

"Well, we're not," Dean said shortly. He eased the door to the stairs open.

"But can you blame them for thinking we are when we keep knocking out cops?"

"What do you want to do, Sam? Let them arrest us? Try and explain ourselves?" Dean's voice echoed in the concrete stairwell, and he tried to bring it down a few notches. "They'll both be fine. And if we hurry, so will we."

When they emerged into the moonlight, they could tell by the noise that at least some of the crowd from earlier had returned. The cop left on the street must have radioed for help. That wouldn't make things any easier once they got back on the road. But this area was surrounded by thick pine forests. They ought to be able to find a dirt road somewhere. They could spend the night in the car and find a back road out tomorrow.

They skulked along in the shadows, taking a long, looping route back to the truck. And they had almost made it when a plain black sedan passed. Passed, then screeched to a halt and threw it in reverse.

They broke into a run.

"Stop! FBI!" a voice behind them shouted. It was that guy, Agent Henrikson.

They just ran faster.

"I said stop!" And this time it was punctuated by the sharp report of a handgun, which they found a bit more persuasive.

"Put your hands on your heads, and get down on your knees," the agent called from behind them.

"Think we should also do the hokey pokey and turn ourselves about?" Dean murmured out the side of his mouth.

"Sounds good. You put your right arm in, I'll pull my left foot out."

"'Kay. On my sign."

Henrikson approached slowly, warily, and Dean worried that maybe he'd do the smart thing and wait for backup before coming to cuff them. Luckily the man had a little too much self confidence for that. He had a knee in the middle of Sam's back and was pushing him down to cuff him when Dean gave the sign – which was basically throwing the first punch.

It landed hard on Henrikson's temple, but he didn't go down until Sam followed it with a sweeping kick at ankle level. Even then Henrikson probably would have recovered soon enough if it hadn't been two on one. Watching Dean take another shot felt unsportsmanlike to Sam, but he told himself it was for a good cause. And if that wasn't enough, he called an anonymous tip in with the man's position as soon as they'd made it safely to the truck.

OOO

Two days later, Victor leaned back and looked over what he had written, rubbing gingerly at the knot on his head.

**UNLAWFUL FLIGHT TO AVOID PROSECUTION; MURDER; BREAKING AND ENTERING; CREDIT CARD FRAUD; IMPERSONATING A FEDERAL OFFICER; GRAVE DESECRATION**

**Dean Winchester**

**Aliases:** Jerry Wanek; Christopher Johnson Jr.; Dan Hesmansen; Gregory Washington; Hector Aframian; Ted Nugent; Harrison Ford; James Hetfield; Nigel Tufnel; Gene Simmons; Kris Warren; Jack Bauer; Robby McGillicuddy; Alan Stanwyk; Billy Gibbons; Mikhal Mahagov

**DESCRIPTION**

**Date of Birth:** January 24, 1979 **Hair:** Brown

**Place of Birth:** Lawrence, Kansas **Eyes:** Green

**Height:** 6'1" **Complexion:** Light

**Weight:** 175 **Sex:** Male

**Build:** Medium **Race:** White

**Occupation:** None **Nationality:** American

**Scars and Marks:** None known

**Remarks:** Winchester almost always travels in company of his brother, Sam Winchester. They travel extensively within the United States and rarely stay in one city for more than a few weeks. They drive a 1967 Chevrolet Impala with a Kansas license plate number KAZ 2Y5. He supports himself primarily through credit card fraud, but has also been known to engage in pool hustling and poker. He often uses names of rock stars, actors and fictional characters as aliases. He is believed to have an extensive weapons collection.

**CAUTION**

DEAN WINCHESTER IS WANTED FOR NUMEROUS MURDERS COMMITTED OVER THE PAST DECADE OR MORE IN MULTIPLE STATES, AS WELL AS MANY OTHER CRIMES. HE HAS ESCAPED FROM POLICE CUSTODY MANY TIMES AND, IF FOUND, SHOULD BE CONSIDERED A STRONG FLIGHT RISK.

**SHOULD BE CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.**

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS PERSION, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FBI OFFICE.

**REWARD**

The FBI is offering a reward for information leading directly to the arrest of Dean Winchester.

And:

**UNLAWFUL FLIGHT TO AVOID PROSECUTION; ACCESSORY TO MURDER; BREAKING AND ENTERING; CREDIT CARD FRAUD; IMPERSONATING A FEDERAL OFFICER; GRAVE DESECRATION**

**Sam Winchester**

**Aliases:** Robert Singer, Mark Hamill, Ace Frehley, Jerry Caplin, Jim Rockford, Carl Burkovitz, Han Solo, Ricky McGillicuddy, Frank Beard

**DESCRIPTION**

**Date of Birth:** May 2, 1983 **Hair:** Brown

**Place of Birth:** Lawrence, Kansas **Eyes:** Brown

**Height:** 6'4" **Complexion:** Light

**Weight:** 180 **Sex:** Male

**Build:** Thin **Race:** White

**Occupation:** None **Nationality:** American

**Scars and Marks:** None known

**Remarks:** Winchester almost always travels in company of his brother, Dean Winchester. They travel extensively within the United States and rarely stay in one city for more than a few weeks. They drive a 1967 Chevrolet Impala with a Kansas license plate number KAZ 2Y5. He often uses names of rock stars, actors and fictional characters as aliases. Winchester is an avid reader and is known to frequent libraries and historic sites.

**CAUTION**

SAM WINCHESTER IS BEING SOUGHT FOR HIS INVOLVEMENT IN NUMEROUS MURDERS COMMITTED OVER THE PAST DECADE OR MORE IN MULTIPLE STATES, AS WELL AS MANY OTHER CRIMES. HE HAS ESCAPED FROM POLICE CUSTODY MANY TIMES AND, IF FOUND, SHOULD BE CONSIDERED A STRONG FLIGHT RISK.

**SHOULD BE CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.**

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS PERSION, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FBI OFFICE.

**REWARD**

The FBI is offering a reward for information leading directly to the arrest of Sam Winchester.

All they lacked was the director's signature. Once Victor had that, he could get them up on the agency's Web site, on their featured fugitives list. He'd prefer the 10 Most Wanted list, but by definition, there could only be 10 fugitives on there at a time, and the only way to get off the list was to be caught – in the 57 years the list had been in existence, only four criminals been taken off because they were no longer considered dangerous. So he'd have to wait until one of the current 10 Most Wanted was found.

That might take a little while, but it would eventually happen. And once it did, Victor felt sure the Winchesters would be prime candidates for the next spots. To be put on the list, the agency had to believe that the criminal was particularly dangerous and that it was likely the publicity would increase his chances of being captured.

There was no question that the Winchesters were extremely dangerous – especially Dean. Victor doubted he'd ever be able to prove Dean's connection with all the murders he suspected the man had committed, but if he could, he thought Dean might even give Ted Bundy a run for his money. Plenty of people who made the list had only committed one murder. A few got on without committing any murder at all, if they sold enough drugs or were especially prolific child molesters.

As for the publicity angle – well, people tended to remember faces like those of the Winchesters.

And Victor had no doubt it would work. Over the years, 458 criminals had made the Top 10 list; 429 of them were caught. But he still couldn't help but frown.

He was feeling uneasy about the case now. Something wasn't right. According to the picture of the Winchesters he'd formed in his mind, they should have killed him two nights ago. Not that he was complaining – but still.

He shook his head. It didn't matter. So they had opted not to add one more body to their count. They hadn't actually killed any cops as far as he knew. Maybe they thought that would really bring the law down on their heads.

He'd just have to ask them when he caught them.


	3. Chapter 3

Victor took a second to put on his game face – impenetrable and unimpressed – before pushing open the door that would put him

Note: One reviewer (TammiTam, to duly give credit where credit is due) suggested adding Maddie's shooting to Sam's list of crimes. While it's a good idea that I would otherwise jump on, I really don't think I can do justice to what I think Sam should be going through after that. So I'm thinking the timeline veers off sometime soon after Night Shifter. Just so you know. But I really appreciate the suggestion all the same!

And, of course, thanks to Mazza for the advance read.

Chapter 3

Victor took a second to put on his game face – impenetrable and unimpressed – before pushing open the door that would put him nose to nose with a monster. He let the disgust he felt for it feed his tension.

The man on the other side was giving Victor's game face a run for its money. His expression was flat and his eyes hard. And if Victor's face said unimpressed, this guy's was screaming downright disdain.

Despite the fact that he was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and chained to his chair.

"So," Victor said. "I understand you have something you want to talk to me about."

The man gave a few slow, indolent nods before saying with more articulation than you'd expect from the thug he appeared to be, "I was framed."

Victor shrugged. He'd heard that before. "Sounds like a problem for you and your lawyers. Not for me. From what I hear, they found the knife that killed Scott Carey in your car, covered in your fingerprints. And, I might add, with some DNA evidence that Scott wasn't the only person you'd killed with it."

The man just stared at him impassively, choosing not to respond to Victor's enumeration of the evidence against him. Then, after a beat or two of letting Victor wait on him, he let the other shoe drop: "I'm told you're looking for the Winchester brothers."

Victor barely stopped himself from reacting. He hadn't been expecting that.

"I am," he said. "So?" 

"So, Sam Winchester is the one who framed me."

Victor didn't say anything, but he did finally sit down. The scrape of the chair's metal as he pulled it across the tile to a spot in front of the man echoed in the bare room – just loud enough to drown out the way Victor's heartbeat had sped up in his ears. 'This could be it,' he thought.

The man waited for Victor to get settled and started talking again. Again, Victor was struck by his voice – hard and precise when others in his position tended to whine and wheedle.

"Check the recording of the 911 tip," the man said. "It's Sam Winchester's voice. Do you have any knowns to compare it to?"

Victor nodded reluctantly, uncomfortable agreeing with anything this man had to say. But there were recordings from the bank of Sam's call for a paramedic and his call giving Victor's location in Natchitoches, and Victor couldn't think of any excuse to hide it.

"It'll match," the man said, sure of himself.

"That just proves that Sam turned you in," Victor pointed out. "There's a long way from there to framing you."

The man gave a halfhearted shrug. "Not so long when you consider who we're talking about. What do you know about the Winchesters?"

Victor gave him an appraising look, then snorted and said in his most odiously official voice, "I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations with members of the public."

The man didn't look amused, or even particularly concerned. "Fine," he said. "Then let me tell you what I know about the Winchesters: Given time, if they're not stopped, they're going to become the most dangerous men you or your agency will ever hunt."

Victor thought that was a bit of an overstatement, but didn't find it especially shocking. He'd never taken the Winchesters anything less than dead seriously. On the other hand, he wasn't planning on taking anything this man said with less than a large grain of salt. But this was the first person he'd come across who admitted to knowing what Dean and Sam really were. He could hardly ignore the opportunity.

"How do you know the Winchesters," he asked.

"Their dad and I worked a job together once, years ago."

"And what kind of job was that?"

The man considered the question for a moment. "A little … animal control problem."

Victor allowed a disbelieving eyebrow to raise at that.

"Anyway," the man continued.. "Ran into Dean and Sam not long after John died. Briefly thought about hooking up with them, but then I found out what they really were."

"And what's that?"

"Evil."

Victor leaned back and took a slow deep breath, trying to convey to the man that he was getting impatient with the theatrics. "Evil enough to frame an innocent man for a murder they committed, no doubt." Victor didn't actually doubt that they were that evil, but he'd seen the evidence photos of this guy's El Camino. Anyone with the kind of arsenal this man had secreted in his back seat was a pot calling out the kettle when he threw around the word evil.

"I'm not talking about your garden-variety ax murderer evil," the man said. "I'm talking about Hitler evil. Stalin evil. Osama bin Laden evil."

Victor almost laughed at that. "I find that hard to believe. We're talking about two corn-fed Kansas boys without a degree between them – or even a friend, far as I can tell."

"And that's all they'll ever be," the man leaned forward across the table, getting as close to Victor as the chain would allow, "if you stop them now."

Victor let go of all traces of levity. Maybe not Osama bin Laden evil, but Timothy McVeigh evil would be plenty bad enough. He leaned forward and met the man halfway. "If you know something – if they're planning something and you know about it – you'd better speak up right now."

"And if I do?"

"If you do then maybe I _won't_ do my personal best to ensure that you never set foot outside these bars again. You don't want me to take a personal interest in your case."

The man smiled a little at the threat, from all indications supremely unaffected. Victor got the idea he wasn't planning on staying real long, regardless. Even if Sam Winchester had framed him, Victor didn't doubt for a second that this man deserved his spot in the jail for some other, unknown crime. Probably many.

"I don't know their exact plans," the man said, having made it clear that it wasn't because he was afraid of Victor. "I just know they need to be stopped at any cost."

"How? How do you know that?"

"Let's just say that I have it on good authority from a business associate."

"Another animal control worker?"

No reply. Victor decided to change tracks.

"So what's Sam Winchester got against you?"

The man sat back, shrugged a little. "Nothing much, I think. We don't exactly see eye-to-eye, but I probably have more of a problem with him than he has with me." 

"Then why would he frame you?"

"Because I was going to kill him."

Victor couldn't conceal his surprise at that. "Come again?"

"Sam Winchester is evil. If somebody doesn't stop him, it's going to be very bad."

"Stop him or kill him?"

"The only way to stop him is to kill him. Nothing else will work. And it has to be soon, or it will be too late."

Victor was having a little trouble keeping up here. He studied the man in front of him, looking for signs that he was unbalanced. But he looked as calm and cool as he had when Victor walked in. Then again, maybe it was sign enough when you could make a pronouncement like that and keep a straight face. It was time to wrap this up. Victor just had one more question.

"Do you have any idea how I could find the Winchesters?"

The man didn't say anything for a long moment, and Victor thought maybe he wasn't going to answer without some offer of a deal. Which Victor wasn't going to make. The only advantage of exchanging this monster for the ones he was hunting would be in numbers.

But he was wrong. Crazy or not, the man apparently was more committed to the Winchesters' capture than his own release.

"Watch the weather patterns," he said.

"Sorry?" Committed to their capture or not, the man was apparently still crazy.

"Look at the towns you know they've been in. You'll notice a pattern in the weather. You should eventually be able to follow that to where they'll be."

"They can change the weather?" Victor asked, words all saturated with sarcasm.

"Evil'll do that sometimes," the man drawled.

Victor got up. He'd wasted enough of his time.

OOO

After it was over, there was no place to look except at the body, no matter how hard they tried.

They had been so close. Just a few minutes faster, maybe, and it would have been OK. One less bathroom break on the way to Bethany, a bit more restraint with the snooze button this morning, a little less stealth on that salt and burn two days ago. A quicker escape from Louisiana last week.

Anything might have been enough, given them those few extra seconds they needed to put everything together. Then maybe they would have figured out five minutes sooner that the spirit wasn't going after ones to blame for its death, but ones it had blamed for its unhappiness in life. Carley hadn't deserved the blame – just been a little too bright, too pretty, too happy for her own good.

And if they'd figured that out five minutes sooner, maybe the 18-year-old would still be all those things. Instead of lying on the red dirt road in front of them, adding to its redness.

Sam slid down a nearby tree, still breathing hard from the battle with the ghost. His eyes flicked briefly to Dean before going back to Carley. Dean never even noticed. Sam thought about saying something. Something like, we tried, not our fault, nothing more we could have done. But there was no point. They both knew that. It was just that the knowing didn't help. And fault hardly seemed the thing to talk about with Carley there, still and pale on the road.

They should salt and burn the body. They wouldn't want to be back here a year from now dealing with a new ghost. But Sam hoped Dean wouldn't suggest it. Carley had a doting mother and father. An adoring older brother. Grandparents. Friends. All people who deserved to know what happened to her. Sam didn't think he could just leave town and let them wake up tomorrow morning wondering where she was.

He watched as Dean knelt down beside her. His face was completely blank, the way it only ever got when he was upset. He lifted a hand, let it hover hesitantly over the girl's forehead for just a moment before giving in to a quick, caressing stroke. Then he stood back up. He glanced at Sam and headed back to the truck.

Sam made his own way back to his feet and followed after his brother. He took one long glance over his shoulder, then climbed into the cab and started planning the 911 tip he'd leave the second they crossed the county line.

OOO

Even with all the activity going on around it, there was no where to look except at the body. Victor didn't even bother trying not to.

A credit card flag had brought him to Bethany, and he'd hoped that for once it would be in time. But no sooner had he barreled into the police station, planning to look through the files for recent deaths that would provide the Winchesters the cover they liked, than half the officers went barreling out, alerted by a 911 call that there'd been another teenager death.

The blood was still drying at the scene, and Victor wearily assembled another manhunt, not really expecting anything to come of it. But he stayed there, forced himself to face his failure.

Carley Redding, the locals informed him. Eighteen. Graduating in a few months. Probably would have been third in her class. Was all set to lead her basketball team to the state championship this year. Her name was in the First Baptist order of service to sing a solo tomorrow morning.

Instead, here she was. There were cuts up the insides of both her wrists, but it was probably the one across her neck that killed her. All because Victor wasn't fast enough, wasn't smart enough to catch these men. He'd been cocky in Milwaukee, sure that all it would take to bring these guys down was him being on the job. Same for Louisiana last week and the places they'd met in between. He knew others would tell him it wasn't his fault, the blame lay with the men who'd murdered her. And he knew that technically that was true. It was just that the knowing didn't help. Seemed insulting, even, looking down at Carley Redding.

He wouldn't let this happen again. He'd work harder. Longer. Do whatever he had to do to track the Winchesters down and stop it.

He'd stop it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam's phone rang, and he and Dean both stopped their unpacking to shoot wary looks at it

Chapter 4

Sam's phone rang, and he and Dean both stopped their unpacking to shoot wary looks at it. Phone calls when both of them were present and accounted for were cause for suspicion these days. They didn't think the FBI had turned up anyone with their cell numbers, but still.

The screen said Bobby, so Sam shrugged and answered with a tentative "Hello?" He wondered if he could get away with trying to disguise his voice without Dean making fun of him.

"Where're you boys at?" Bobby growled in response.

"Um," Sam said, nonplussed. Bobby sometimes called to see if they were closer to jobs than he, and he wasn't know for taking time for niceties, but you could at least generally expect a semi-civil "hello" out of him. "Huh?"

"Are you in for the night or out on the road?" he clarified, irritation growing with each word.

"Oh. Uh. We're in for the night, I guess. The Dew Drop Inn in Pleasanton. Nebraska."

"You got cable there?"

"Cable?" Sam repeated, dumbly.

"Yes, cable. It'd be attached to your TV."

"Uh. Yeah, I guess so." He looked up at Dean. "We've got cable, right?" Dean nodded, giving him a funny look. "Yeah, Bobby. We've got cable."

"Well turn it on Fox."

And with that, he hung up.

Sam didn't immediately put the phone down, as though maybe, if he waited, there'd be an explanation. But he finally admitted defeat and flipped it closed. He looked at Dean and shrugged again. "He said put it on Fox."

Dean frowned, but did as he was told, flipping through the channels to find the local affiliate.

John Walsh's dramatic nasal voice filled the air. _" … reason to believe the two can be linked to crimes going back a decade or more."_

"America's Most Wanted?" Sam said. Dean shrugged and fixed his attention to the screen.

"_A modern-day Frank and Jesse James," Walsh continued. "But until last year, authorities didn't even know they existed."_

The hard black eyes of the FBI agent from Louisiana filled the screen, and Sam's stomach suddenly went cold.

"_Dean and Sam Winchester may be the two smartest criminals I've come up against in my career," he said. _

And Sam's suspicions were confirmed.

"Oh shit." Dean said, sinking shakily onto a bed.

Walsh's voice came back, accompanied by gruesome crime scene photos Sam was surprised they could get away with showing on network television.

"_The Winchesters came to the attention of Victor Henrikson, a special agent with the FBI, two months ago, when Dean Winchester was found at the Baltimore scene of Karen Giles' murder with blood on his hands."_

Sam found himself shooting surreptitious looks at Dean's hands. How many times had he seen them covered in blood? How many times had his own been bloody? How could they not have seen this coming?

"_He was arrested and his younger brother, Sam, was brought in for questioning. That wasn't a first for either of them. But it was the first time that their jailors knew their real names."_

Sam didn't recognize the man who took up the story at that point, but the screen helpfully identified him as one Sergeant Pat Lewis of the Baltimore Police Department, and Sam winced. This wasn't going to be good.

"_I wasn't the officer investing the case – that officer's no longer with our department. But everyone heard about it. It was … well, amazing that this guy could have gotten away with so many things and only be 27 years old."_

A glance at Dean told Sam he wasn't feeling much flattered by the compliment.

"_We put Dean Winchester's fingerprints in the database and got more than a dozen possible hits," Lewis went on. "All under different names. We started calling up some of these places – they were scattered all over the country – and we learned that each time, someone matching the description of Dean Winchester had some how wiggled out of their grasps. Sometimes just released on bail and never showed back up. Sometimes actual honest-to-goodness escapes – picking handcuff locks and jimmying doors. A regular Houdini._

Walsh broke back in here with an exterior shot of the Baltimore police department, zeroing in on a window Sam unfortunately recognized.

"_And he'd apparently taught his brother his act," Walsh said. "Sam Winchester disappeared from a locked second-floor interrogation room about four hours after he was brought in. It's presumed that he somehow managed to climb out of this window, though police are at a loss as to explaining how."_

"Yeah," Dean suddenly piped up. "How _did_ you climb down from there?" He looked as though the question had just occurred to him. Sam just shot him an incredulous look and turned back to the screen.

"_Because he was technically only there for questioning and had not yet been arrested, the police had not yet fingerprinted him," Walsh said. "As a result, it's unknown how many more crimes he could have linked the Winchesters to._

"_Dean followed him a day and a half later, escaping while in transit to one of the many other jurisdictions he was wanted in."_

Dean tensed, hackles raised at that. "Kind of convenient, leaving out the rest of the story, don't you think?" he groused at the TV. Sam shushed him – and got a punch to the arm for his trouble. But Dean did shut up.

"_After all the other times Dean had escaped, efforts to find him had been half hearted – his other arrests had been for credit card fraud, breaking and entering and, most bizarrely, grave desecration._

"_Except one."_

Another new face, this time labeled Officer Doug Kines of the St. Louis Police Department.

"_Back in November last year," Kines said, "we'd had a string of grisly murders. Bad stuff. Pretty women in their 20s all sliced up. It was … the worst thing I've seen in my career."_

The man got a faraway look in his eye and had to take a moment to collect himself. And as much as Sam was inclined to hate these men for the mess they were making of his life, he couldn't quite manage it.

"_Anyway," he said, clearing his throat. "We actually had a man in custody who we liked for at least one of them, and then suddenly there were two more victims. The last one, though, we got an anonymous tip and were able to stop it before he'd actually killed the girl. So we finally had a witness, someone who could give us a description of her attacker. And turns out she knew the guy, had met him recently. Could even give us a name."_

Dean's face flashed suddenly across the screen, glaring brazenly into the camera. Sam suddenly realized how they must appear to outsiders. Dean looked for all the world like a hardened criminal.

"_That name," Walsh intoned, "was Dean Winchester."_

It sounded so ominous, Sam couldn't suppress a shiver. And he _knew_ Dean was innocent.

Then Lewis, the Baltimore officer, was back, gazing seriously out at the viewers.

"_That came up in our check for priors," he said, "and we thought, 'We've got a serial killer on our hands.'"_

"What!" Dean exclaimed. "A serial killer?"

Sam, tore his gaze away from the screen to stare, stunned, at his brother. But he really couldn't think of much to add. "No wonder we've been assigned our very own FBI agent," he said weakly.

"A _serial_ killer?" was all Dean could come up with in response.

"_The only problem was, the St. Louis office had closed the case" Walsh said. "They thought they had their man – in a graveyard, six feet under."_

Kines voice came back, accompanied by close ups of a police report with the words "case closed" highlighted.

"_Dean Winchester, we believed, had been shot in the act of attempting another murder – that of his brother."_

That wasn't exactly new news, but Sam couldn't help but wince a little at having it laid out like that. He looked over at Dean whose scowl just kept growing deeper.

"_The story the Winchesters concocted went like this," Walsh began. "Sam had been visiting the woman in question, an old college friend, along with Dean. Sam, at the time, claimed not to have known of his brother's activities, but realized what happened after his friend was attacked._

"_Worried that his brother might come back to finish the job, he said he made arrangements to stay with the woman for the night and offer his protection. He claimed to be glad he had when Dean broke into the home again later that night. Dean then attacked Sam, the story went, and was in the process of strangling his brother, when Sam was able to get ahold of Dean's gun and shoot him in the heart."_

Photos of the Warren's demolished rec room, a blood splattered wall and a bruised throat that Sam recognized as his own played across the screen in an unsettling montage. Dean swore softly.

"_We thought Sam Winchester was a hero" Kines said. "We never suspected the story wasn't on the up and up."_

There was a hint of betrayal in his voice that made Sam feel a little ill. He fought the urge to just turn the television off as Walsh's voice came back.

"_The department buried Dean's body and didn't give the incident much more thought until they got a call from their brothers in blue in Baltimore."_

Then Lewis again, with the evening's first hint of humor.

"_We called them and said, 'Uh, how sure are you that it's Dean Winchester you buried down there?' They said pretty sure, and we said, 'Well, that's interesting since we've got Dean Winchester here in lockup, alive and healthy as a horse."_

Walsh next lines also implied amusement, and Sam wondered what was coming.

"_Predictably, Dean denied having committed any of the murders in St. Louis or Baltimore. Not so predictable was his cover story."_

And then Dean's face was there again, smirking at them. And it wasn't just a photo this time.

'Dean Winchester, videotaped confession,' the caption read. And even though he knew it was useless at this point, Sam suddenly found himself praying "please don't open your mouth, please don't open your mouth."

"_My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women. And I did not kill anyone. But I know who did. Or rather what did. Of course I can't be for sure, because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory was that we're looking for some kind of vengeful spirit."_

"What!" Sam exclaimed as someone gave an equally outraged 'excuse me?' in the background. "Dean …" Sam trailed off, at a loss for words. Dean just open and closed his mouth a few times, evidently at a loss of his own, and finally gave up.

"_You know," his on-screen double was saying. "Casper the bloodthirsty ghost? Tony Giles saw it. I'll bet you cash money Karen did, too. But see, the interesting thing is the word it leaves behind. For some reason it's trying to tell us something. But communicating across the veil, it ain't easy. You know, sometimes the spirits, they, they get things jumbled. You remember REDRUM. Same concept. You know, it's, uh, maybe word fragments ... other times, it's anagrams. See, at first we thought this was a name, Dana Shulps. But now we think it's a street. Ashland. Whatever's going on, I'll bet you it started there."_

TV Dean turned toward an off-screen voice that accused him of murdering the Gileses in cold blood, just like he'd done to the girls in St. Louis. TV Dean seemed unperturbed by the accusation.

"_Oh, yeah," he said. "That wasn't me either. That was a shapeshifter creature that only looked like me."_

And he finished with his cheshire cat grin, which, in light of the circumstaces, seemed grotesque.

"_The body buried in St. Louis was exhumed, but it remains unclear just who was buried in Dean Winchester's place," Walsh said. "Evidence photos show a very clear resemblance to Dean, however the body de__composed extraordinarily rapidly, to the point that a positive indentification was not possible after the exhumanation."_

So, Sam thought dully, that's what happens when a shapeshifter dies. They should have gone back to burn the body. Not that it would have helped their case. But it sure would have felt good.

Walsh was still talking. How could there be more?

"_Agent Henrikson said where Dean and Sam Winchester are concerned, that shouldn't come as a surprise."_

Oh God. Sam had somehow forgotten about him.

"_To tell you the truth," Henrikson said. "I wouldn't be surprised to find out that Dean and Sam ran into this guy who looked just like Dean and saw it as an opportunity to get away with something."_

"Who does this guy think we _are_?" Dean muttered, somehow managing to sound both hurt and enraged at the same time.

"_Henrikson doubts it would be the first time, and he's certain it wasn't the last."_

Sam tried to brace himself for what was coming.

"_I came into this case about two months ago, just in time to witness first hand the Winchester's craftiness. Somehow – it's still not clear to us just what they were doing there – the Winchesters were part of a group of bank customers taken hostage by an armed robber in Milwaukee. Within hours Dean and Sam had taken over. By the end of the night, we had three bodies, all of which the original bank robber might have been blamed for – if he hadn't been shot by police snipers well before the time of death on the last one."_

Footage of Dean blinking into the bright television news lights surrounding the City Bank of Milwaukee, brandishing a ridiculously menacing machine gun at audiences across America.

"_With that in mind,__" Walsh said, "Henikson has begun combing through old murder cases across the country, matching credit card records that indicate the Winchesters were in the area with unsolved crimes."_

Sam was, by this time, too numb to even react to that. Henrikson reappeared, looking calm and confident and perfectly capable of tracking their asses to the ends of the Earth.

"_These cases never would have been connected otherwise," he said. "There's no pattern, no victim profile, no standard MO. They're just killing whenever the opportunity presents itself. And when we trace it all the way back, I think the number will be staggering."_

Sam and Dean didn't even breathe as Walsh wrapped the segment up.

"_Agent Henrikson is asking for your help. If you've seen Dean or Sam Winchester, call 1-800-CRIME-TV. Or, for more information, visit fbi.gov._

"_Coming up next: Ralph Rodgerson was convicted on 10 counts of child molestation before he disappeared from his Mississippi courtroom. Police are hoping you can help bring him to justice."_

They just stared at the TV for a moment as a garishly colored advertisement for ludicrously long-lasting gum came on. Finally Dean groped around the bed behind him until he found the remote and shut the thing off. Sam, who had stood through the entire program, sank weak-kneed onto the other bed, only to shoot up again after a fraction of a second. He rushed to the windows and started slamming the curtains closed.

"How many people watched that, do you think?" he whispered, as though the next door neighbors might even now be calling the police.

Which, Dean guessed, they might. But that didn't help him think of an answer. He just shook his head mutely and stared at the blank screen.

Sam did what Sam always did when faced with the unknown, and rushed to his computer. He was typing even before he made it all the way into the chair. After a moment, he said dully, "Six point two three. Million. More people watched it last week than The Apprentice."

Dean still didn't say anything.

"Or … House.

"Or The Office.

"Or Friday Night Lights. Or –"

That was about as much as Dean could take of that. "Dude, shut up!" he burst out.

Sam shut up, just starred at him wide-eyed. Which made Dean feel a little bad. But who knows how long Sam would have gone on like that, otherwise.

Dean leaned forward and put his head in his hands, sucking air noisily in through the small cracks between his fingers and pressing against his eyes until the neon lights exploded behind his lids.

More calmly now, Sam started again. "Dean, their Web site says they've helped put 931 criminals behind bars."

"We're not criminals, Sam," filtered through Dean's fingers.

"Yeah, well, the FBI's Most Wanted list says otherwise."

That made him look up. "We're on the 10 Most Wanted List?" And where two months ago, he'd been a little impressed with his hardened criminal status, now it was all he could do to keep his voice from cracking.

"Well, not exactly most wanted," Sam clarified. "We're under a section called 'Featured Criminals.'"

Dean put his hands back over his face so that he wouldn't have to watch the way Sam was comparing Dean's mug shot to the real thing. He figured the beard and black dye job helped, but he wasn't sure it would be enough. Luckily the show hadn't had a mug shot of Sam, just some grainy surveillance camera picture, presumably from the bank, and a typically terrible driver's license picture. And they hadn't had any video of him to play on TV, so maybe it would be OK that his disguise was even more half-assed than Dean's.

"I can't believe this is happening," Dean murmured into his hands.

For some reason, that seemed to make Sam mad. "Really?" he said. "Because except for the murders, they've pretty much got the story right."

Dean looked up again, this time confused. "What?"

"Well, we've kind of brought this down on ourselves, don't you think?" Without Sam's bangs to deflect some of it, Dean got the full force of his brother's glare. 

"How?" Dean demanded.

"Dean, how much money do you think we've stolen from the credit card companies over the years? Motels, even the skuzzy ones we stay in, aren't cheap when you're renting one every night. And good cause or not, we actually did do all that breaking and entering and grave desecrating. Can you imagine how that looks to them? And busting out of jail is a crime whether you're guilty of what they arrested you for or not. Hell, if we wanted to get technical about it, I _have_ actually committed a murder, Dean."

Dean could only stare at him open-mouthed, equal parts bewildered and angry.

"So what is it you think we should do, Sam? Only help people who leave their houses unlocked? And are close enough that we don't have to spend much money on the gas to get there? And are being haunted on the weekends and after 5, when we're not busy making fries at McDonald's to support ourselves legally? And whose ghost hasn't been buried yet and isn't in the morgue or hospital or anywhere else that would require stealing a body or digging it up? Because if that's your plan, I'm thinking it's not going to work."

Sam shook his head impatiently. "I know that man. You _know_ I know that. Every bit as well as you. I was there growing up, remember? I'm just saying, we've been living on the edge of the law for two decades. We can't reasonably be surprise when someone finally realizes it."

"Yes we can!" Dean's voice had taken on a desperate quality, but he didn't much care just then. "Did you _see_ what was coming on next Sam? A child molester! _We_ beat out a man who raped 10 children for the top story. We don't deserve that!"

He paused and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He ran a hand through hair that was just past the point where he'd normally get a trim. It might be the longest he'd had it in years. The feel of it was foreign.

"Sam," he sighed. "I just. I know people aren't going to understand what we do, but … It's just hard to take. How many people have we saved over the years, huh? How many of them would complain about the fact that we didn't get written permission to come into their house and rescue their families? And the credit card thing … I mean, I know that's not entirely legal, but I've always kind of thought of it as a tax. Like the way cities and states pay for their police and firemen. It's not like we're living the high life, here. We had beef jerky for dinner. They're getting a good deal for their money."

Something he said must have hit home with Sam, because he could literally see the fight seeping out of his posture. He pushed himself up from the chair, away from the table, away from the sight of their wanted posters, and crossed to the beds. He sat down facing Dean, and they just looked at each other for a moment before Sam broke the silence.

"You're right," he sighed. "But … what are we going to do? This is – this is _bad_. And I don't think it's going to go away on its own."

That had kind of been their plan up until now: Keep as low a profile as possible, stay out of the police's way and, given a little time, things would die down. Maybe they'd been naive from the start, but even Sam had kind of believed it. Now … well, Dean was picturing scenes from The Fugitive, and he was the optimistic one on this issue.

They were going to run and run and run, until one day they were caught. Or shot. And that's only if the demon didn't get them first. Or maybe both would happen. Maybe the demon would have Sam earning his wanted status.

Dean just didn't see any options. Any way out of this.

And then Sam's phone rang again.

OOO

"_Agent Henrikson is asking for your help. If you've seen Dean or Sam Winchester, call 1-800-CRIME-TV. Or, for more information, visit fbi.gov._

"_Coming up next: Ralph Rodgerson –"_

Victor shut the television off with an impatient click. He hated these things, these shows that made money by sensationalizing murder and depravity. But it worked. And if it worked, he was going to use it.

He looked around the office. It was 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night, and the room had taken on that subdued feeling that meant only the desperate were left. The water cooler gossip had long since run dry, and the 9-to-5ers had been gone for more than 24 hours. Anyone still here was here because they'd given up all pretenses of normal life.

It was Victor's favorite time to work.

Right now he was mostly just waiting to see what kind of reponse they'd get from tonight's broadcast. A small team of agents had been assigned to take the calls the show forwarded them and report the results to Victor.

But it would be a little while before they had anything, which left Victor with a little time to chase down some other lose ends.

"Federal Bureau of Investigations, Albany, Georgia, field office," a dispatcher drawled into his ear. The Albany office was handling Carley Redding's murder. Normally Victor would have insisted leading the investigation himself, but the taping of tonight's show had required that he return not long after the body was found, so he'd been forced to leave it in the local AD's hands. He was hoping the man would have some new information for him by now.

"This is Special Agent Henrikson. Give me AD Madison."

"The AD's not available right now, sir." Victor wasn't sure which he found more irritating: the Georgia accent or the boredom in her tone.

"Well, make him available."

"Sir, it's after 9 on a Saturday night."

"So he's gone home? Then get me his home number."

"I'm not authorized to do that, sir."

"Well get authorized."

"Sir – "

"Listen sweetheart, maybe you hadn't heard, but an 18-year-old girl was murdered in your jurisdiction last week. Seems to me that would be occasion for putting in a little overtime. Wouldn't you agree?"

Three minutes later, he was dialing the AD's home number, grumbling about how he never should have left to begin with.

"Yeah?" the man answered – a bit blearily, Victor thought, for a law enforcement officer who should be used to being pulled from sleep.

"It's Agent Henrikson, sir. I was calling for an update on the Redding case."

"Henrikson?" the man grumbled, sounding confused. "Shoot man. It's Saturday."

"Which means Carley Redding was murdered a week ago today. I trust you've been able to pull together some leads by now." Victor left no doubt as to how he'd take a 'no' answer.

The sheriff sighed. "Actually, no, we haven't," he said in a voice that aimed for reasonable.

Victor ground his teeth and opted to see if silence might not scare the man in to giving him something more satisfactory.

"We've been a loose ends all week. Right after you left we had some kind of freak electrical storm. Knocked the computers at our Bethany site out. We've been doing what we can, but these days you need computers to make much of what evidence you gather – and I gotta tell you, there's not a lot to begin with. The scene was pretty well clean. Signs of a scuffle. Footprints and tire tracks that we'll work on identifying as soon as the computer's up. And maybe we'll be able to figure out what made the cuts. But that's about it."

This shouldn't be a surprise to Victor. The Winchesters left fingerprints behind like calling cards, but rarely much else of use. They had a good case against the Winchesters, what with Sam's 911 call and all, but he'd been hoping the scene would turn up something that might give them an idea on where the brothers were going next.

Victor sighed and decided not to list for the AD all the ways he would have done better. "Fine," he bit out. "Keep me posted." And hung up.

He stared at his computer screen for a couple of minutes trying to think of something else to do, before he gave up and decided to head down to the phone bank. It was too early to expect much, but he'd at least be able to see what kind of interest the show had stirred up.

Or maybe not too early. The phones were ringing off the hooks, and all the hold lights were blinking. Henrikson signaled for an agent to come over between calls.

"Anything good?" he asked.

The agent shrugged a little. "Seems to be mostly hotel workers, waitresses and convenience store clerks, but I haven't had any very recent sightings yet."

"Mostly?"

"Yeah. With a few weird ones sprinkled in." 

Victor waited, but the kid didn't offer more. Victor's jaw was going to lock one of these days from all this grinding. "Weird how?" he asked, ennunciating carefully and wondering how this idiot had managed to get into the bureau. Who cares about bell boys who saw the suspects months ago. The weird ones were the ones to pay attention to.

The boy shrugged again, and Victor fought he urge to call him out on it. He'd wait until after he got his information to do that. "Weird like this one lady called and said we had the story all wrong – the Winchesters aren't criminals, they're heros. Said they'd rescued her daughter from drowning. And another man – wouldn't give his name – said they'd stopped a plane from crashing last year. Wouldn't say how, either."

Victor almost forgot to grind his teeth, that was so unexpected. Then one of the agents called for him.

"Agent Henrikson? I've got a girl here asking to speak to you."

"So? Tell them you're authorized to take their information for me, and I'll get back to them if necessary."

"No, sir, I think you're going to want to talk to this one. Say's she's the woman they talked about on tonight's show, the one in St. Louis that Dean Winchester almost killed."

What in the … Victor wearily moved to a nearby phone and picked up the line indicated.

"Henrikson," he barked.

"Agent Henrikson?" was the reluctant answer. "This is Rebecca Warren – Sam's friend? From St. Louis?"

"Sam's _friend_?" Victor asked incredulously. "That's generous of you, considering."

"Right, uh, that's what I called about. Sir, you've got the story all wrong. Sam and Dean aren't the bad guys. They saved my life. Probably a lot of other womens', too."

Victor shook his head in frustration and confusion. "Ms. Warren, I've read your statements. You're the one who identified Dean to begin with."

"That was before," she insisted, nonsensically. "I didn't know then. It wasn't him, it just looked like him. It was the man who was killed, I swear."

Maybe she just needed to believe that to feel safe at night, Victor mused. But then – "What do you mean before? What did you not know then?"

Silence. Then: "I … I can't really explain. And you wouldn't believe me if I could. You just have to trust me, please."

Oh, that was convincing. Victor growled a sigh. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you're really going to have to give me more to go on than that."

More silence. Then, quietly, the girl stammered, "They called it a shapeshifter."

Victor pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it for a moment. He didn't have time for this. "A … shapeshifter."

"Yeah. It … I don't know how really, but it could … change. Look like different people. It pretended to be my brother when Zach's fiancee was killed. And when it came after me, it changed to look like Dean. It … it even pretended to be me for a little while to get to Sam. And then it was Dean again, when it was shot. That's why it looked just like him."

OK. Poor girl was clearly having some problems dealing with what had happened to her. But Victor wasn't her therapist; it wasn't his job to set her straight.

"Alright, ma'am, we'll look into that. Thanks for calling," he said, readying to hang up.

"You don't believe me do you? Fine. Just forget about the shapeshifter part. But please, Sam and Dean Winchester aren't murderers. I swear it."

Maybe if it hadn't been almost 11 p.m. on Saturday night, Victor would have been inclined to be more sympathetic. As it was … "And why are you just now telling me this. Your statement doesn't mention any shapeshifter. You didn't seem to have a problem with people calling Dean a murderer then."

"They told me not to tell anyone what really happened. That nobody would believe it anyway."

Right. Well. When they're right, they're right. Victor sighed. "Ms. Warren … I'll keep this in mind, but please remember, this isn't the only murderer they're wanted for. And they've proven pretty good at fooling people. Whatever they told you, you can't take it at face value. Now. I appreciate your call, but I really do need to go. Thanks."

And that time he did hang up.

He trudged back to his desk, leaving instructions to call him the second anything useful came in. Then he sat down and started staring at notes that were becoming so familiar the sight of them made him nauseous.

Heros. God, people were dumb. And shapeshifters? Shit. That was almost as bad as what that nut Gordon Walker had been spouting. What was it he had said … watch the weather patterns?

Maybe it was because it was so late. And because he happened to be looking at the notes he'd taken from his earlier call to AD Madison, right where he'd scrawled 'freak electrical storm.' But suddenly everything around him froze.

Weather patterns. Freak electrical storm.

It was just a coincidence. He was just tired. There was nothing to it.

Right?

But …

What if there was?

There wasn't. He was sure of it. But on the other hand, he was also desperate.

He scrubbed at his eyes, stared at his notes for a few more minutes, then, almost against his will, picked up the phone and asked to be connected to NOAA.

Twenty minutes later, the Louisiana bureau confirmed that yes, there had been some sort of unexplainable electrical storm in Natchitoches a couple of weeks ago, just a day or two after he'd left.

Seven hours after that, he'd established that all of the locations he had identified as having been stops on the Winchester tour in the past few months had also experienced electrical storms. Further back, there'd been more time between the time he believed Dean and Sam had moved on and the time the storm occurred, but lately, they'd been coming sooner after the boys' departure. The one in Bethany hadn't even waited a full 24 hours.

And four hours after that, the NOAA meteorologist called back to say they were seeing signs of another one.

In Guthrie, Oklahoma.

OOO

Note: First, thanks again to Mazza – but she didn't get to read the second half before I posted it and can't be held responsible if it's no good.

And second, I've never actually seen a full episode of America's Most Wanted. I did watch one segment that I found on YouTube, but that's all. I tried to write it like an episode of Dateline or 60 Minutes, which I do have more experience with. And opinions on the show expressed by Agent Henrikson are his own and do not necessarily reflect the views of this author or her editor. The rating numbers and such are accurate, however.

Oh, and, in case you didn't notice, I changed my mind about this taking place before Born Under a Bad Sign. It's now taking place sometime after. But still before Heart.


	5. Chapter 5

'Guthrie, Oklahoma,' Victor thought to himself

OK, y'all, two things. First: I know that on the CWTV site, they spell Henrickson's name with a 'c' in the middle. But I promise I didn't just pull my spelling (Henrikson) out of thin air. They didn't have his name on the site after the first one, and Television Without Pity spelled it without the 'c'. And so does the Internet Movie Database, sometimes. Plus, I like it better without the 'c', so I'm going to stick with what I have.

Second: I tried so hard to get this done Thursday evening before Folsom Prison Blues aired because I was worried it would steal my thunder and make it look like I was just copying the show. I didn't get it done in time, but I don't think there's too much of an overlap. But for the record, I outlined this chapter weeks ago, and I don't read anything more spoilery than the TV Guide episode descriptions.

I just hope y'all aren't overdosed on the police theme. And also, Mazza is my hero.

Chapter 5

'Guthrie, Oklahoma,' Victor thought to himself. 'Guthrie, Oklahoma.'

What if they were there right now? Maybe leaving any minute.

And what if Victor was losing his mind? Because that can't be for real, right? People – no matter how evil – can't change the weather. The NOAA guys hadn't been able to explain the freak electric storms, but that's why they're called "freak," right?

There were other storms in towns that hadn't been tagged as possible Winchester layovers. But Victor didn't know if that meant that it was just a coincidence when they did coincide, or if those were Winchester hits that Victor didn't know about.

It would be a hell of a coincidence.

Then again, if it weren't a coincidence, it would be a hell of a something else entirely.

Victor scowled at his phone. He should call the Guthrie police and have them put out an APB. He should. Weird or not, he couldn't ignore a lead like this.

But they were going to ask why he thought the Winchesters might be there. He couldn't lie – that kind of thing comes back to bite you in court. But he couldn't exactly tell the truth, either.

He continued to glare down his phone, feeling there was something defiant in the way it just sat there, refusing to cower under his stare.

He had to call, and he had to call now. If the pattern held, they would be either already gone or on their way out. And maybe he'd catch them during the next electrical storm, but how many murders could they commit between now and then?

He thought about Carley and reached for the phone. He'd put them off on the explanation. Maybe someone would even call in a sighting before he was forced to come up with one.

With his hand on the cradle, he took a deep breath, trying to convince himself to pick it up.

And then it rang.

Stinkin' phone was obviously against him.

He thought about not answering – having made up his mind to call, he didn't want to get stuck on the phone when the Winchesters could be escaping. But he always hated people who didn't answer their phone calls. So he picked it up.

"Henrikson," he barked, letting the other person know what an inconvenience they were being.

"Agent Henrikson, this is Lt. James Currie, with the Guthrie, Oklahoma, Police Department."

Victor's mouth fell open, but he couldn't even begin to think of what sounds should be coming out of it.

"I understand you're looking for Dean and Sam Winchester?" the lieutenant asked.

It still took Victor a moment to find the words he needed to answer. "Uh … Yes."

"Well, we've got them in custody here in Guthrie."

"You're kidding," Victor couldn't help sputtering.

"Sorry?"

Victor shook his head, trying to clear it. "No, no. I'm sorry, Lieutenant. It's just … that's … amazing news. I'll get on a plane right away. I can be there in four hours. How did it happen? Did someone see the program last night and call in a report?"

"Program?" Currie asked, sounding confused. "No, sir – they turned themselves in."

OOO

_the night before – Pleasanton, Nebraska_

Sam walked over to his cell phone and glanced at the display, expecting to see Bobby's name again. But it wasn't Bobby.

"Andy Gallagher," he read out loud. He glanced up at Dean, who shrugged uninterestedly. They had too many problems of their own right now – he didn't have a lot of concern left over.

"Hello?"

"Sam? It … I … It happened." Sam could barely make out the words; they were hardly more than a whisper.

"Andy?"

"I had a dream."

Sam's head shot up, eyes searching out Dean, who had gone back to staring intently at the blank TV's now blank screen. But the tone of Sam's next question pulled him from his funk quickly enough.

"What happened, Andy?"

"The … he was in it. The man with the yellow eyes. In my dream."

"What did he say?" Panic was starting to creep into his voice now, he knew, but he didn't have the energy to tamp it down. He gestured for Dean to start packing and began gathering his own stuff. "Did he tell you to do anything?" he demanded when Andy didn't reply to his last question.

"Tracy," Andy whispered.

Sam fell still, mid-fold – the brokenness of that one word told him everything he hadn't wanted to know. Next thing he knew, he was whispering, too. "What about Tracy, Andy?"

"He … I couldn't … Oh God …"

"Andy, where's Tracy? Is she there? Is she OK?"

"She's … she's here."

"Is she _alive_, Andy?"

"I … I don't know."

"Where are you, Andy?"

"At her coffee shop."

Sam's hand was starting to ache from the death grip he had on the phone. Dean buzzed around him gathering bags, but Sam couldn't pull enough of his attention away from the conversation to help.

"OK, listen to me, Andy. I want you to hang up and call 911, OK? Then get out of there. Dean and I are on our way, but it'll take us about seven hours to get there. Lay low, and we'll come find you, OK? But get Tracy help first. OK?"

"Sam –" Andy pleaded.

"Call 911 now, Andy. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"… OK."

OOO

Six and a half tense hours later, Sam and Dean were exchanging uneasy glances as they drove past Tracy's. Andy's van was parked in front, and the sign on the door was flipped to closed. Dean pulled into a nearby parking lot and turned the truck off.

"What do you think?" he said, turning to Sam.

Sam chewed on his lip for a moment before replying. He wasn't sure how Dean was going to take his answer. "I think I'd better go in there and check it out."

Dean didn't looked surprised. Just stubborn. "You're not going in there alone, Sam."

Sam was just as unsurprised. And as stubborn. "Dude. No names. And you know why you can't go in with me."

"Yeah, well, I stayed behind last time, and look how much good it did me."

Sam grimaced – Dean had a point. He shuddered just a little at the thought of what almost happened that night. Clearly Dean staying behind hadn't helped. But neither would Dean coming with him.

"Listen," Dean said, "I'll leave the gun here. It's not fool proof, but if he talks me into trying anything, at least I won't have a weapon handy. And you have my permission to cash in on that rain check before I can find one."

It took Sam a second to follow what Dean was saying, but then it clicked and he was frowning impatiently at him. "I'm not going to hit you," he peeved.

"Hey, I'd rather eat a knuckle sandwich than a bullet," Dean said. "Come on, man – lesser of two evils, here."

Sam still looked doubtful, but his resolve was weakening. "You think I can take you?" he asked, a little surprised that Dean would even imply as much.

"Dude," Dean said, exasperated. "You've got three inches and, like, a billion pounds on me. Plus, I'll be doing everything I can to fight it from the inside. If you've got all that going for you and you still can't stop me? Then you won't have to worry about me blowing my brains out – I'll die from the shame of having such a pansy for a brother."

Sam rolled his eyes at that, but relented. They climbed out of the truck, and Sam watched as Dean made a show of locking his gun in the hyped up tool box, along with the two knives he generally kept strapped out of sight. He raised his eyebrows silently questioning Sam – 'Good?' Sam reluctantly nodded, and they set off down the street.

A couple of seconds to pick the lock, and they were quietly sneaking into the back entrance and through the kitchen.

What they found, unfortunately, was about what they were expecting.

Tracy was lying motionless on the floor beside an overturned chair. Sam assumed she had fallen out of it sometime after she'd emptied the pill bottle sitting on the table. The bottle was accompanied by an almost empty glass, rim smudged pink with lipstick. Sam had to shake away the image of the cheerful, apple pie-sweet woman he remembered, swallowing pill after pill and dutifully washing it all down with sips of water. All in all, it painted a picture of a heartbreakingly deliberate suicide.

Complete with the devastated lover crying over the body.

"Andy," Sam whispered, voice jagged with sorrow and horror, trying not to think about how any time now this could be him. He could be the one crying over what was left of what he'd done.

Andy startled and turned toward him. His face was splotchy and tear-streaked.

"Sam," he croaked. "Dean. I …"

"Andy, why didn't you call the ambulance?" Sam begged. If he was still _him_ enough to be upset, to call Sam for help, why hadn't he tried to fix it?

"It's too late," Andy sniffed, somewhat calmer than Sam was expecting.

"It is now," Sam agreed, unable to keep the harshness out of his tone. "But that was hours ago. Maybe they could have saved her, pumped her stomach, something."

"No," Andy said. "You don't understand. It's too late."

Sam shook his head in frustration. "What – " But he stopped short. Something was … wrong. Why hadn't Dean spoken up?

He turned around. Dean wasn't behind him. He glanced fearfully back at Andy, then hurried into the kitchen to look for him.

It was deserted. Sam ran back into the dining area. "Andy, where –" But he didn't need to finish. Through the front windows, he could see Dean walking out into the street, into oncoming traffic. Sam barreled toward the door, heart pounding, but lost precious seconds struggling with the lock.

By the time he finally wrestled the door open, he was expecting to hear squealing breaks any minute. But the sound didn't come.

Instead, he realized that Dean hadn't stepped blindly in front of just any car.

He'd flagged down a police cruiser.

Sam was torn between running toward Dean and trying to stop him, and running away from what was about to happen. Turned out it wasn't his decision to make. By the time he'd put two and two together and managed to pull the breaks on his sprint toward Dean, Dean had told them who he was and was pointing toward Sam. A second later, the officer had his gun out of his holster and aimed at Sam, while his partner started patting Dean down.

Then there was nothing else to do. Sam raised his arms above his head in surrender. By the time the officer had pulled them behind his back and snapped on the cuffs, he was completely numb.

OOO

Victor spent the 30-minute drive from the Oklahoma City airport to Guthrie strategizing. He'd spent the four-hour plane ride from D.C. to Oklahoma reading, and it had only left him with more questions.

He'd wondered what had drawn the Winchesters to Guthrie, what they'd had planned, so he'd asked the local PD to e-mail him any files on recent deaths, explained or not. It was a small town and therefore a small pile, and in it he'd come across the suicide of Ansem Weems. Or, the so-called suicide. The file had four police officers who swore they'd seen Weems shoot himself. But while Victor was no forensics specialist, he found it a little hard to believe that the kid had chosen to kill himself by shooting himself in the back of the head.

And the reports made by witnesses Luke Skywalker and Han Solo set off a whole nother set of alarms. How had those aliases gotten past anyone?

This was not the first time he'd come across evidence that the Winchesters had some lawmen on their side, but this was the most blatant. And it was just one more explanation he was looking forward to prying out of the Winchesters in their confession.

He and the Winchesters were going to get to know each other real well.

OOO

When Victor stepped out of the afternoon sun and into the Guthrie Police Department, it was obvious that the office was in an uproar. Almost a dozen officers were crowded around two conference tables piled high with weapons.

"What's this?" he asked one of them. The guy didn't even bother turning to look at him.

"This is what they got from that truck the kids who turned themselves in this morning were driving," he said, drooling over – but not touching – a very expensive looking crossbow.

"All of it?" Victor asked, surprised despite himself.

The crossbow was lying between a couple of obviously well-loved sawed-offs and an assortment of handguns. Fanned out above it was a staggering – and confusing – array of bullets. There were your standard clips of lead, but others were carefully labeled as silver or iron. And some of the shotgun shells seemed to be filled with buckshot, but the majority were stuffed with rock salt – the kind pansy-assed homeowners who were too squeamish to use real bullets liked to keep on hand for self defense.

On the other table were knives and blades of every size shape and purpose, and – was that really a wooden stake?

But that wasn't even the weirdest part. Victor hadn't pegged the Winchesters as religious fanatics, but scattered among the weapons were rosaries and crucifixes. Milk jugs with "Holy Water" scrawled in black marker across the plastic. Bibles – in the King James variety, as well as the original Aramaic, Hebrew and Greek. Korans. Talmuds. Vedas. Tao-te-chings. Bhagavad Gitas. Those candles you see a lot at gas stations in poorer neighborhoods, the ones with the faces of saints plastered onto the side.

There was also a collection of plastic water bottles recycled to hold a confusing assortment of what looked to be herbs and spices and … other stuff. Victor didn't have to dig deep to imagine the Winchesters as druggies, but – he picked up one of the bottles and read the label – he wasn't sure what kind of high you got off of "black cat bone."

And did that one really say "lamb's blood"? What kind of monsters carry … Victor just shook his head and decided to save that thought for later.

Then there were the IDs. Dozens of them, all bearing pictures Victor recognized as being of either Dean or Sam Winchester, but none willing to claim them. And in trays containing items collected from their pockets, there were more, nestled into wallets containing credit cards issued in even more fake names. Nothing that would lead anyone back to their real identities – and he suspected the sandpaper was used to a similar end. It explained why there'd been a sudden dearth lately of crime scenes that could be connected to Dean.

It didn't explain why they would suddenly turn themselves in, however. Why, Victor thought as he absently fingered one of two matching pewter charms from the trays, would they have gone to the trouble of sanding off their fingerprints if they were going to march up to a random police officer and stick out their wrists? It made no sense.

He carelessly tossed the charm back into the tray and went to find the police chief. It was time someone introduced him to the Winchesters.

OOO

Victor nodded at the guard who told him to "just knock" when he was ready to leave, and swaggered confidently into the room where Sam Winchester was being held.

The room had been left almost completely bare at Victor's instructions, and Sam and Dean had been relieved of all their personal possessions. They may have turned themselves in, but he didn't believe for a second that it meant they wouldn't also feel free to let themselves out, and he didn't want a stray paperclip to provide the means.

The result was a decidedly austere lack of furniture in the room, and it seemed Sam had chosen to forego the rather uncomfortable looking chairs bolted to the floors. Instead he'd folded himself into a corner, knees drawn up to his chest.

Victor was struck once again by how no one ever looked like a killer.

Sam certainly didn't. He also didn't look quite like the few pictures Victor had seen of him. The hair was short rather than shaggy, and blond. But Victor would have recognized him from the eyes alone. When Sam looked up to see who had come in, they locked gazes and Victor had a sudden sneaking suspicion that _this_ was why for every five calls the phone bank got from people wanting to help them find the Winchesters, there was one call to say they should be left alone.

A pair of sad eyes wasn't going to fool Victor, though, and he opened his mouth to say as much.

But somewhere in the space between opening his mouth and saying 'Oh, I can see that you'll make a lot of good friends in the pen,' just as he took a breath, everything slide out of place. There was a violent jolt like the building had been hit by a Mack truck. But nothing but his body seemed to register the impact.

Or, actually, not even his body seemed to register it. Just his insides.

And he tried to shake his head, clear his mind, but his neck didn't seem to be taking orders from his brain just then.

His eyes, which he'd shut instinctively when the blow hit, peeled themselves open of their own accord and zeroed in on Sam. Who was staring at him in confusion that quickly turned to fear.

And Victor saw it all happen through a yellow haze.


	6. Chapter 6

I thought you might show up," the kid below him was saying in a voice that wasn't quite trembling, but wasn't entirely steady,

Note: Major, major thanks to Mazza on this one. Seriously. Owe her my first born child or something.

Chapter 6

"I thought you might show up," the kid below him was saying in a voice that wasn't quite trembling, but wasn't entirely steady, either. Victor might have been confused, both by the tone and the sentiment – was there anyone who _wasn't_ expecting him to show up – if he hadn't had more pressing things on his mind.

For instance, the fact that he was losing said mind.

People always say such and such is going to drive them mad, and Victor wouldn't swear he hadn't thought it a time or two during the Winchester case. But as frustrating as the case had been, this was unexpected.

Besides which, he'd always assumed that when you went crazy, all of you went. It had never occurred to him that when he was looking at a crazy person – and he'd gone toe-to-toe with the truly insane more than once – that there might be someone _not_ crazy inside looking out.

Helpless.

So, instead of answering 'well, give the man a gold star,' Victor felt his jaw move to form something totally different.

"Sam. You don't sound excited to see me. I'm _awfully_ excited to see you."

Victor saw just a hint of a flinch flicker through Sam at that, and he couldn't really blame him. Victor knew how to sound scary – was really very good at it, in fact. But this was different. He would have flinched, too, had he been in control of his own flinching. The 'awful' part of 'awfully excited' sounded literal.

"What do you want?" Sam asked as he pushed himself into a standing position. He slid up the wall as though trying to melt into it – or at the very least keep as many fractions of inches as possible between him and Victor.

A sinister chuckle gurgled up from Victor's throat, though he really didn't get the joke. "I thought you knew all about that now," he said.

Sam's lips pursed in a tight line. "I'm not going to be one of your soldiers," he snarled.

And that's when things got really bad.

It wasn't like Victor had never been tempted to hit a prisoner. It wasn't even like Sam Winchester wouldn't have been a prime candidate if he had decided to start whaling on one of the pieces of shit he ran across in the line of duty. But there were rules. And breaking that one – that was the kind of thing that ended careers.

So when Victor's arm pulled back and slammed an elbow into Sam's cheekbone with enough force to bounce the boy's head off the concrete wall behind him, it suddenly hit Victor just how fucked he was.

But then he was talking again, and still nothing was making sense.

"No, you're right," he said in response to Sam's retort. "You'd make a travesty of a soldier – we all know what a piss poor job you do of following orders."

"Then what do you want with me?" Sam asked with confusion, but remarkably little slurring, in Victor's opinion. He could all but see the Tweety Birds circling Sam's head, so he was a little surprised Sam was able to follow the conversation at all. Especially given that it made no sense, whatsoever.

A chuckle bubbled its way up Victor's throat. "Feeling a little unloved, are we? Don't worry, Sammy, you're still one of my chosen ones. In fact, I have some _extra_ special plans in store for you."

Sam's nostrils flared, and when he spoke his voice was low and hard, his eyes determined. "Whatever it is, you can forget it. I'm not going darkside."

'_Darkside_?' Victor thought. OK, maybe this was all just a really dumb dream. It was all that 'evil' bullshit that Gordon Walker had been spewing. Factor in finding the weather pattern deal and you had the makings of a really bizarre nightmare. Or you know what? Maybe the weather thing was part of the nightmare, too.

Victor was snapped out of his musings by his own voice. "Lucky for me, I don't need your permission," it said, and followed it up with another blow to Sam's head.

This time the kid did go down. Victor's hand grabbed him by the collar to haul him back up for a look, but Sam was out. Victor felt his lips curl up at the corner. "Time for a little trip," he murmured.

He turned back toward the door, dragging Sam with him. A knock, and the guard on the outside was letting Victor out. Until he saw the body trailing along behind him.

"What happened?" the man exclaimed, making to rush over to the body.

But he never made it. Suddenly the guard was flying into a wall across the hall. Which drew more attention to them and resulted in more flying bodies.

And suddenly Victor was wondering if his grasp of the situation wasn't little off. Because clearly he was the one doing this, and going crazy wouldn't give him super powers.

So then … what …

Victor couldn't even think of a way to phrase the question in his head. And things just kept getting worse. He was pretty sure he'd heard a gunshot or two. Then he was slinging Sam's body into the passenger seat of his rental car – Victor was kidnapping a prisoner. This … this … this wasn't happening.

Except that it was.

OOO

Dean was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, banging his head dully against the cinderblocks, thinking about how messed up everything was, when the commotion outside started. Something big slammed against his door, and he jumped. It was followed by other, more-distant bangs, and he got to his feet. Someone outside yelled "Freeze!" and he shuffled – as well as he could with the handcuffs and manacles – toward the door.

After the first gunshot, he started pounding.

"Hey!" Bang, bang, bang, bang. The metal of the cuffs added a kind of clang to the noise. "Hey! What's going on out there?" Bang, bang, bang, bang. Jiggled the handle a little. Bang, bang, bang, bang. "Hey! Open up. Sam? Hey!"

The door flying open knocked him backward into the wall. A wild-eyed officer was on the other side, frantically sweeping the room. The panic on his face subsided just a hair when he saw Dean, and he stepped aside to let a guard in.

"Watch him," the officer said to the guard. "But don't go near him. And don't let him go near anything else. Just … yell if he so much as smiles at you funny." He turned to leave.

"Hey!" Dean yelled after him. "What's going on? What happened?" But he was talking to a closed door. He turned back to the guard left behind, who was regarding him warily, hand on his holstered gun. "What the _hell_?" Dean asked, taking a step toward the man.

The guard shrank back and his knuckles whitened around the handle of the gun. Dean saw real fear in his face and hurried to retreat, not wanting to push an armed man. Not without a more defined reason, anyway. He held his hands in front of him placatingly.

"Listen man, I'm not going to try anything. I just want to know what happened," he said.

The guard glanced at the door, then back at Dean, but kept his mouth shut.

Dean tried again. "Is my brother OK?"

Nothing. Just another nervous look at the door that ratcheted up Dean's apprehension level.

"Come on, I gotta have some kind of right to know that. Just … What happened out there? Did it involve Sam?" Dean was getting desperate, and without thinking, he took another step forward.

The guard whipped out his gun, and Dean froze.

That really couldn't be a good sign.

Dean turned back toward the door, intending to start up the pounding again, but the guard bellowed a semi-frightened "Hey!" at him, so he stopped.

"Dude," Dean said, voice shaking ever so slightly, "you gotta' give me a hint here, or we're going to have a problem."

Something in that must have rang true, because the guard's expression began to take on a conflicted quality. His cheek twitched a little, and when he glanced at the door, it had more a look of an employee wanting to make sure he wasn't going to get caught sneaking an extra break than a cornered animal checking its escape route.

"Your brother, he … escaped," he said finally.

Dean couldn't conceal his surprise. That was … good news. He guessed. Unexpected though, that Sam would just bolt without him. Not that he didn't deserve it, turning them in like that, but … Well, maybe he had some kind of plan. Maybe he'd be back to break Dean out. And if not, wasn't like Dean couldn't get himself out. Eventually. Wouldn't take too long, he didn't think. He'd just have to …

Except, if that's all this was, why did the guard look so freaked out? And then there were the gunshots. Could he really expect that a whole department full of police were all such bad aims that none of them were able to hit a moving target in an enclosed space? What the hell was Sam thinking, planning an escape route through that, anyway?

Dean shook his head irritably. Something was up. He turned his attention back to the guard. "Escaped or … tried to escape?" he asked, trying not to sound too much like he was rooting for Sam.

The guard gave a small shrug, but answered, "Escaped, I guess."

"You guess?"

The guard went back to just looking at him, and Dean bit back a sigh. He didn't think he could expect much more information from the man.

So he edged over to the wall across from the guard and slid back down to the floor to think.

A hundred billion worst case scenarios later, the door opened. The officer was back. He dismissed the guard with a look and then sat down in one of the bolted-down-chairs and swiveled to face Dean.

"So," he said. "Your brother coming back for you, or is this his way of breaking up?"

Dean felt the tension drain out of his shoulders immediately at that. That question meant Sam had definitely survived the escape. He didn't answer it, though, and told himself it was as much because he wasn't sharing information with the police as it was that he just plain didn't know.

The officer – his nametag read Capt. Henry – sighed heavily. He had that tattered, tired look that comes from overwork, and it made Dean think that under different circumstances, he'd be one of the good guys. "Listen, you two are both in enough trouble as it is," he said. "You add killing a federal agent to the list, and there's no question. They'll be going for the death penalty." 

"What?" Dean couldn't help but spit out. He levered himself to his feet. "Who said anything about killing a federal agent?"

He got an impatient frown in return. "You might as well drop the innocent act. It made sense when you were turning yourself in for no good reason, but the cat's kind of out of the bag now, don't you think? I don't know what you boys have on Agent Henrikson that convinced him to leave and take Sam with him, but you better think long and hard about – "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean interrupted. "Sam left with that fed?"

Henry's eyes narrowed, taking in Dean's astonishment. He must have found it convincing, because he said, "You … really didn't know, did you?"

Dean didn't really have time to answer, though. He was too busy processing that new information. It just didn't make sense. No way would Sam take an FBI agent hostage just to … Wait. That wasn't exactly what the man had said, was it? 

"Did you say Henrikson left and took Sam with him? Not the other way around?"

The officer got a shifty, uncomfortable look, and his answer was hesitant. "Yeah, but …"

He trailed off, and Dean knew that he wasn't really convinced the abrupt departure had been Sam's idea. It's just that he was having trouble accepting the alternative.

Shit. The last time one of them had been spirited away from jail by an officer of the law, the man had planned the trip around good execution spots. It didn't seem like the kind of thing that would happen twice, and as far as Dean knew, they weren't in danger of exposing the man as a murderer. Then again, that Henrikson definitely seemed a little over the top last time they'd talked.

"You've got to find them," Dean finally said. "Sam … We didn't plan this, I swear it. Henrikson must … I don't know, but you've got to find them. Sam wouldn't have left with him willingly."

Dean wondered if that last was going too far, because, really, a way out of jail was a way out of jail to most people. They'd have to know Sam to know that he wouldn't take it. But something about the way Henry averted his eyes at that statement told Dean that maybe he didn't need to know Sam after all.

"He … didn't leave willingly, did he?"

The man's gaze skittered all over the room before finally resting on Dean again. He tried to pull his chair closer before remembering that they were bolted down. He wet his lips and opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally working up the courage to spit out what he had to say.

"Sam was, we think, unconscious when they left."

"What?" Dean exploded. "Then what … how would … why did you even pretend like it was Sam's idea?" Dean took a couple of threatening steps forward, and the Henry's hand moved toward his gun. He waited to make sure Dean got the message before answering.

"We thought it might be some kind of act. You've got to understand, Victor Henrikson is a model agent with an impeccable record."

"Victor Henrikson _told_ me months ago that he was going to bring me and Sam in alive or dead and he didn't much care if it was dead!"

"Son," Henry said in a tone that was surely meant to be a calming, "with your record, I don't doubt that that's true. That's the way things work. But it's a far cry from abducting a prisoner who's already been brought in alive."

"Well, good record or not, that's exactly what he's done," Dean pointed out, belligerently. "And you just let it happen!"

Henry again got spotty with the eye contact. "We didn't 'just let' it happen. We tried to stop him. To tell you the truth, we can't explain exactly how he was able to get past all the guards and officers. But our focus now is on finding them. Now, I need you to be up front with me. Do you have any idea where they might have gone?" 

Dean shook his head, and Henry asked a few more questions that he couldn't answer. But his mind wasn't on the conversation any more. He had to think of a way out.

OOO

Victor had had a while to think about things but no luck in coming up with answers when Sam finally started to stir next to him. He came awake with a gasp and bolted upright, which Victor got to see because whatever was controlling his neck turned to look.

"Afternoon, sleepyhead," Victor's voice drawled.

Sam's head jerked around, and Victor could see him backtrack, calling up the events that he could remember and putting together what had happened since then. Even so, there was no warning before he spun around and pulled on the door handle.

But nothing happened. He pawed frantically at the lock, but wasn't able to pull it up. Victor's mouth smirked.

"Sam. Would that have really been a good idea? We're going 80 miles an hour, and your wrists are chained to your ankles. I know you're not my biggest fan, but would you really rather be roadkill than spend a little quality time with me?"

"I'm not helping you," was Sam's reply. "In your army or whatever, I'm not working for you. I'm not turning evil. I'd kill myself first."

'There's that word again,' Victor thought. 'Evil.' And he was reluctantly coming around to the idea that, whatever was going on, 'evil' didn't describe Sam Winchester. Only problem was, Victor wasn't so sure he could say the same for himself – or at least, whatever was inside him.

Victor's voice sighed, sounding bored. "Don't be so dramatic, Samuel. I already explained that that wouldn't be necessary."

Sam stared hard at him for a long moment, but eventually dropped his gaze and apparently decided he wasn't ready to pursue that line of questioning just yet. "How long?" he asked, instead.

"How long, what?" Victor's voice replied.

"How long have you been in him? The whole time? Are you the reason the FBI's after us?"

He knew, Victor realized. He knew it wasn't Victor doing this. And maybe it shouldn't have been such a surprise based on the conversation back at the jail, but it was still a major relief to have the confirmation that this wasn't all in his head, that he wasn't going crazy.

But if it wasn't in his head, then what was it?

A snicker tickled Victor's nose. "Oh no, you're not blaming that one on me, Sam. You did that all on your own."

"Then why him? What's he got to do with it?"

Victor wasn't sure how much he was still controlling his more involuntary bodily functions, but he was pretty sure that if anything was connected at all, his pulse should be speeding up right now.

"What, this old thing?" Victor's voice said. His head tilted down, indicating Victor's body like a coquettish girl would indicate a favorite dress. "Nothing at all. He was just convenient. First person you saw after the charms were taken away. Not that I'm not enjoying it. He runs, you know. Lifts weights, too. That dad of yours was getting a little flabby in his old age."

Victor's head was spinning, working to take all that in, but Sam didn't give him long to dwell.

"Charms?" he asked. 

"Those charms you've been totin' around since the spot of trouble with that daughter of mine. She paid for that, by the way. Spare the rod, and spoil the child, after all – the Good Book managed to get that much right. Those stupid little relics cost me a lot of time, and you wouldn't have had them if she hadn't muddied up the waters."

The blood drained from Sam's face, leaving a stark contrast between the bruise covering the left side of his face and the rest of his ashen skin. Victor couldn't imagine why. That was possibly the most innocuous thing his voice had said so far.

Another snicker. "That's right. You're wide open, Sammy. I could jump on in and set up shop any old time. But don't worry. Your sanctity's safe with me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see his grin in the rearview mirror. The reflection reminded him of some of the worst monsters he'd caught. Slimy, like something you'd find living under a rock.

"Dear old Bobby," his voice went on, and the smile died. "Couldn't possess you, couldn't even get near you. It's OK, though. Just had to wait 'til Andy grew up enough to join in all the reindeer games – I knew you wouldn't be able to hang on to the charms in lockup."

Possession? That's what this was? That was real? Victor's mind was racing, trying to recall childhood Sunday school lessons and college religion classes. He remembered something about a mad man and a bunch of pigs, but it'd been so long. Besides, that was back then, back when … well, back when people believed in that kind of crap. Victor did not believe in that kind of crap.

Except – hadn't he read not too long ago that the Catholic Church still had exorcists on the payroll?

"What do you want with me?" Sam finally whispered beside him.

And there was that slow grin again, curling snakelike across Victor's lips.

"I thought you were a God-fearing man, Sam. Heard you prayed every night."

Sam didn't answer. Didn't even move. Every muscle was tensed, as though he were bracing for a blow.

"Seems like you would have read one of the Bibles those nice Gideon men left in all your hotel rooms."

Still nothing.

"If you had, maybe you'd remember that Samuel wasn't a solider. He was a prophet. The one God used to choose the next king."


	7. Chapter 7

Thousands of people escape from prisons and jails each year

Note: Oh goodness, y'all. I knew going in, I really did, that at some point the show was going to undo everything. But I overestimated my speed in writing – I thought I'd be farther than this by season finale time. And I underestimated just how far Kripke would go. So. Sit back, relax, take a trip back in time to Before. When the whole demon thing was still relevant.

And as always, thanks very very much to the very very patient Mazza.

Chapter 7

Thousands of people escape from prisons and jails each year. Especially jails, where security usually isn't as tight. Every now and then the method is something outrageous and flashy – those movies where people tunnel out or stowaway in garbage cans are based on real events – but more often than not, they just walk away from work crews. Spot a payphone while they're out scrubbing graffiti off a local playground and call a friend to come pick them up. The harder part was usually staying out of prison; most people couldn't keep up the long-term deception life on the lam required.

Dean knew he had the hard part pretty much down. Only problem was, even if anyone in their right mind would consider putting a man with multiple escapes under his belt on a low-security work crew, he doubted he'd get to start until after he'd been officially arrested and processed and arraigned. Which meant days, probably. Or maybe you didn't even get that kind of duty until you were officially convicted. Which meant months, at least. And really, even hours was too long in Dean's opinion.

So. It'd have to be something more daring.

Tunneling, although he'd always wanted to try that, was probably out. For one, he didn't have a shovel. For two, that took months. For three, the room was pretty much made of concrete anyway. And for four, he also didn't have a pick ax or jack hammer. Still, tough luck.

There wasn't a trashcan in the room, much less one big enough for him to hide in while he waited for the dump truck to make its rounds. And he thought his chances of squeezing through the 12-by-6-inches air vent were slim as well. No pun intended.

Well, maybe a little intended.

Anyway. It looked like his best chance was going to be overpowering the guard – who had returned after Capt. Henry left – and stealing his uniform. He hated to do it – he hated to repeat a trick. But he just didn't have time to come up with something more creative.

Dean eyed his guard speculatively.

"So," he started. "What's a guy gotta do to take a leak in this joint?"

A few minutes later, he was standing in front of a urinal in a locked bathroom. The guard was standing behind him, still – which, creepy – but at least the handcuffs were off, if not the manacles. Dean made to unzip his pants, but instead swung his elbow up and back – and right into the jaw of his guard.

He sighed a little bit when that worked – this was what was wrong with America's justice system, he thought, when a guard can be taken in by that old trick.

Still, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in its bloody mouth. While the man staggered backward, Dean spun and landed a few real punches and one head-to-wall slam, and then it was over.

Dean quickly swiped the man's clothes and key ring, bundled him into a stall, attached one of the manacles to his ankle and ran the chain length through a couple of the stall handles before looping the cuff around to lock onto itself. Maybe if Dean left the bathroom door locked, the guy would be stuck there for awhile.

Dean donned his new costume surveyed his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He wished for the balaclava of the FBI SWAT uniforms, but it'd do.

He pressed an ear to the door, listening for indications of what he would be walking into. Things still seemed to be in a bit of an uproar out there; footsteps hurried back and forth. He wasn't sure if that would make things harder or easier – if it meant they'd be on high alert, or too preoccupied to pay much attention. Didn't really matter, he guessed – he was going to have to deal with it regardless. Skulking around in the bathroom wasn't going to change that.

He waited for another set of footsteps to pass by, took a deep breath, counted to 10 and eased the door open. A quick prairie dog revealed one officer halfway down the hall in front of him. He was leaning against the wall and seemed to be typing on a Blackberry. He didn't look like he was going anywhere anytime soon.

Shit. Well, there was nothing for it. The man was standing between Dean and the door. Between Dean and Sam.

Dean crept silently down the hall until he was just inches from the guy's back. Then, bam, and Dean was dragging him back to join the party in the bathroom. He left the chain connecting the cuffs to the manacles threaded through the stall door, but attached the other end to the officer's hand.

Then back to the door – just in time to see a shocked man in a suit taking in the scene.

Dean was on him before he even had time to scream. He had the man wrangled into the unoccupied manacle in under two minutes. 'I should take up professional calf roping,' Dean thought, throwing his hands up like he'd seen cowboys do on TV after wrestling a calf to the ground. 'I'd make a killing on the rodeo circuit.'

By the time he actually made it all the way out of the building, seven men were piled in the bathroom. When Dean ran out of cuffs, he started lacing the chain through belt loops. He wished he could stick around to see if they'd actually take off their pants to get free.

But he didn't. In fact, he still wasn't free and clear. The truck had been impounded for evidence, and, with it, all the weapons. And while Dean could have probably stolen a new car – hell, he still had the guard's keys; he could have stolen a police car – and even guns and knives, there were some irreplaceable books and charms in there.

So he'd have to get them back before going after Sam.

Only problem was, he didn't even know where the evidence lockers were. Yet.

OOO

"What does that even mean?" Sam bit out.

And as much as Victor had been counting on Sam as the only one in the car who might be able to get him out of this, he was glad someone else had asked the question echoing in his head.

"What? Prophet? Sam. How in the world did you make it through three years at Stanford with such a limited vocabulary?"

Sam just stared, didn't bother replying, and the thing inside Victor – the demon, Victor experimentally told himself, then cringed at how ridiculous it sounded – feigned a put-upon sigh.

"You've got to understand, Sam," it said. "None of this is my fault. I didn't give you your powers. I don't even have those powers to give. You want to blame someone, you can blame that God of yours."

"Right," Sam scoffed. "Because God always goes around handing out demonic powers." But even Victor could see signs of a bluff in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

The … thing … wasn't fooled. "I think you know better than that," it hissed softly. "Seeing the future isn't a demonic power. I can't see the future. If I could, why would I need a little pissant like you?"

Sam stiffly turned toward the window, being as dismissive as he could in a Honda Accord. But it was just for show and everyone – and everything – in the car knew it. Even Victor. He wasn't a religious man, but he'd been raised by his very religious Meemaw, and he remembered enough to know the differences between God and the devil. God was all those "omni" words – omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient – and the devil wasn't. He didn't know everything, couldn't know the future.

The Thing – might as well just go ahead and call it that – chuckled malevolently and crooned, "It's tru-ue. You're a Chosen One, Sam. One of God's best beloved. It's just that Ol' Yahweh never was the attentive lover he's made out to be."

Victor could see Sam's eyes flicker toward the driver's seat, but he didn't turn.

"You should relax, Sam," The Thing said. "Once we get where we're going, you're not going to have many more chances."

Sam only tensed further at that. And Victor still wasn't clear on the physics of the time share going on in his body, but he was pretty sure his own stomach clenched a little bit at the insinuation. He wondered how long The Thing was planning to stay inside him, what would happen when it left and how it planned to use him in the meantime.

The Thing glanced up into the rearview mirror, and Victor suddenly found himself starring into his own eyes with something else starring back out at him. It flashed a wicked grin, and Victor just knew, then, that it could hear him.

"Victor doesn't believe in God, Sam," The Thing said. "I mean, he's obviously having his doubts about that now. But until about an hour ago, he was a godless heathen. Isn't that funny? I always love to hear things like that. Your brother doesn't either, does he? The irony in that just _kills_ me. Who believes in the devil but not God?" It shook Victor's head, laughing to itself. "That's priceless."

The humor died out there, and the smile turned cold. "But you believe. In fact, you're praying for a miracle right now. And that? I just find pathetic. He ruined your life."

Sam snapped at that. He turned toward Victor with fire in his eyes. "_You_ ruined my life. _You_ killed my mother, my father, and my girlfriend. Everything bad that's ever happened to me can be traced back to _you_."

'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' Victor thought. 'What?' But The Thing wasn't really giving him time to ruminate – it was hard to think over the sound of your own voice.

"Sure, _technically_ that's all true," it said. "But if I'd had my way, they'd still be wasting oxygen today."

"You can't expect me to believe that."

The Thing put one of Victor's best smiles to good use – the one Victor usually reserved for courtrooms, when he was testifying against something particularly disgusting. Just when he was ready to reveal the bit of evidence that cinched the case, he'd look them in the eye and give them this smile.

"Sam. I know you think all demons lie. But the truth is, we rarely need to. You were supposed to die that night. And if that God of yours hadn't intervened, everyone you love would be off leading the good life – or at least _some_ life. Like I said, I can't tell the future."

For a moment, Sam visibly reeled. But Victor could all but see the synapses firing, and it didn't take long for the challenge to return to his eyes.

"You _are_ lying," he insisted. "I know what you're planning, and killing off your soldiers is no way to build an army."

The smile didn't even flicker. "The army's my backup plan. After four 'interventions' in a row … well, let's just say that I decided if you can't kill 'em, join 'em. Or rather, grab their arm and twist until they join you."

Sam's nostrils flared, and he swallowed hard, looking sick. Victor surmised that something about what The Thing was saying must have a ring of truth to it. The kid's eyes turned resolutely down, and he asked hesitantly, as if against his will, "And Jess?"

Despite his very definite interest in the subject, Victor's face was broadcasting boredom. "Just a push," The Thing said, tiredly, as though he was growing very weary of the conversation. "Just like Ava's fiancé and Andy's girlfriend. Same as starting the beatings back up at Max's house. Just needed something to send you over the edge."

"Max killed himself, and I'm not going over any edge," Sam said through clenched teeth.

'Wait,' Victor thought. He remembered coming across a suspicious death the Winchesters were wanted for questioning in that involved a man named Max. That really was a suicide? And … wasn't there a missing woman named Ava connected to that murder in Peoria with Dean's fingerprints all over it? What the _hell_?

The Thing shrugged Victor's shoulders. "Eh. It's not really an exact science," it said.

"Go to hell," Sam hissed, shaking his head in denial.

A smug "no," was The Thing's only answer.

OOO

Cows.

That was Dean's plan. And it was perfect. Really. It was.

Logan County – county seat: Guthrie, Oklahoma – did indeed have an inmate labor program. And from the looks of things, the inmates were laboring to raise cows. More than 100 of them, easy. Maybe closer to 200. And, as cattle are wont to do, all but a few stragglers were clumped together around the only three trees for miles and miles.

Looking at them there, all baleful and peace loving, Dean could just imagine the chaos that would ensue if he could move the Holstein hoe down to, say, right over there where all the black and white units were parked.

And that was why he was picking his way through what really seemed like an unreasonable amount of manure to get to what he'd determined to be the lead cow. He believed that if he could just entice that one king cow out of the shade, the others would follow.

OK, so actually, he had no idea whether this would work. But it was the only thing he'd been able to come up with. And cowboys herded cows all the time, right? Couldn't be that hard.

'Course, the horses probably helped with that. Maybe chanting 'bah ram ewe' would work?

Yeah. That's right. He'd seen _Babe_. What of it? Sam had been 13 when it came out. And Dean had tried to talk him into _Desperado_ or _Mortal Kombat_ instead, but the kid wouldn't budge.

'And _boy_ had he better appreciate this more than he had that,' Dean thought as he stepped smack dab in the middle of a fresh cow patty. God, he hated Oklahoma.

But that was beside the point, because he was now face to face with Bessie. Or whatever the stereotypical name for male cows was. Or – actually, those looked like udders. So Bessie it was – Bessie The Big and Ugly.

Dean stared her down for a second, then nodded without breaking eye contact. He hoped she'd take that as his concession to her cud-chewing authority. "OK, listen," he told her. "I gotta go find my little brother. And to do that, I need my truck."

She kept chewing but didn't look away. He took that as permission to carry on.

"Now, to get to my truck, I need a diversion. And you're the only one around. So I need you to come with me. You don't have to do anything hard, just come with me and stand around looking pretty – and capable of doing damage to a cop car. OK?"

More staring and chewing, but this time accompanied by a tail flick in the direction of a fly on her butt.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Dean thought, and grabbed the cow behind her ears. He had no idea if that was an acceptable place to grab a cow, but it wasn't like she had a leash or collar.

He pulled.

Bessie ducked her head out from under his hand without breaking the rhythm of her mastication. A cow next to her noticed the disturbance and mooed irritably, but Bessie didn't seem upset. Or inclined to move.

"Aw, come on baby, don't be like that," Dean said in a voice that usually worked on the ladies. "I just wanna go for a little walk."

He tried again, with similar results.

And again.

And then he pulled so hard that, when she ducked, he lost his balance and landed just inches from another fresh pile.

He sighed. There had to be a better way than this. But heck if he knew what it was.

So he tried pushing. Which not only didn't work, but was really, _really_ gross and earned him several tail swats.

So he grabbed a handful of grass, moved a few steps in front of the cow and held it out in what he hoped was an enticing manner. "Here Bessie," he crooned. "Come on, girl, come on. You know you want some."

Nothing.

Dean straightened and brushed the grass off his hands, then fixed her with his most pathetic look.

"Bessie, you don't understand. It's not for me. It's for Sammy. You'd like Sammy – he's not, you know, much of an animal lover or anything, but you two have practically got the same eyes. Just, please. Now. I'm going to try this again. Please, just come on. OK?"

Again with the chewing.

Dean sighed again and tried wrapping both arms around the cow's neck.

One, two, three – pull!

And, miraculously, Bessie came.

And once she got going, she didn't seem to mind being led along by the ear. And as they walked toward the gate – which Dean had picked the lock on and left open – others joined them. Turns out curiosity may have also killed the cow.

It _was_ a perfect plan.

Soon, 40 cows were standing around the parking lot, mooing and pooping. It was great. And more were still lolling on over.

Next thing he knew, there was some yelling from inside, and then officers were pouring out. Dean gave it a minute for the word to spread, then crept out of his hiding spot and right back in – but through the front door this time.

After that, it was ridiculously smooth sailing. Between his earlier officer roundup and the more traditional roundup going on outside, the place was pretty much deserted.

And look-y there. One of those extraordinarily convenient directories mounted right on the wall. Evidence storage was apparently located in room B2. All he had to do was find the stairs.

Once he'd done that, it was a quick run down into the basement, hoping against hope that there weren't any latecomers to the party outside on their way up.

There weren't, and B2 was the first thing Dean saw when he left the stairwell. Then, the room wasn't even locked, and there was no way he could miss all their stuff when he walked in.

He was beginning to feel a little wary of how easy this had actually been. But again, who was he to complain?

So he gathered up as much of their stash as he could carry and turned to leave. Which was when he noticed the only thing on the tables that _wasn't_ theirs.

A laptop case, stuffed with handwritten notes, as well as the computer. And sporting a luggage tag that identified it as belonging to one Special Agent Victor Henrikson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Another note: OK, I've never escaped from jail, though it's certainly on my list of things to do before I die. But I did do some research for this, and all the things I said about escaping from jail are true, according to various and sundry sources. And the things Dean does to get out are based on actual escapes. The cow thing, however, is not – that I know of. But there are inmate labor programs that work with cows. And I even checked – Logan County has some kind of inmate labor program, though I couldn't find out what kind.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean's first inclination was to pull over at the first rest stop he passed

Note: Mazza is lovely and longsuffering and deserves much more than just my thanks.

Also, I'm sorry that it's taking longer between updates. Everybody I've ever met or ever will meet has either graduated or gotten married or both in the last two months. And I fear it's not going to improve anytime soon. I'm sorry. I'll do my best to hurry.

Chapter 8

Dean's first inclination was to pull over at the first rest stop he passed. But he forced himself to wait 50 miles before turning in at a gravel road and taking out the laptop case. It might mean some backtracking later, but that'd take less time than coming up with another Get Out of Jail Free card.

Inside, there were dozens of tattered manila folders, a few legal pads, an assortment of CDs, the loose pages of what appeared to be a long fax and, of course, the laptop. Flipping through the folders, Dean felt his stomach twist up. They were all labeled with names and places he associated with less-successful hunts – cases where they weren't able to save everybody. Despite America's Most Wanted's grandiose claims, he'd had no idea that they'd been connected with so many.

He was about to put the folders down – he didn't really expect to find any clues on the location of Henrikson's special secret suspect hideout in old case files – when one painfully familiar name caught his eye: _Jessica Moore – deceased, 11/02/2005_.

He froze. It was a good 30 seconds before his trembling hands responded to his brain's command to 'open it, dammit.'

One look inside and Dean could almost smell it all over again – that awful mixture of smoke and whatever chemical it was that they put in firetruck water. The photos of charred drywall surrounded by the semi-familiar remains of the life his brother had built within them brought back all the raw pain and wrenching worry of that period in their lives.

He turned the page with more force than was really necessary and came to the police report, which he'd already read a million times. But there was more that must have been added after they'd left town – interviews with people whose names Dean remembered Sam mentioning occasionally there at first; results from the arson investigation that Dean and Sam knew better than to take seriously; and what seemed to be Henrikson's personal notes.

"_The arson investigation found no traces of accelerants, but if these boys are as well trained as I think they are, that's not even a little surprising. It's too coincidental, Sam's girlfriend dying the same way his mother did, just days after his brother arrived back on the scene. Daddy Winchester must have taught Dean all his old tricks. It wouldn't be the first father and son serial killer team. And it's no stretch to imagine the rest of the family being unhappy with Sam's choice in careers. May have even seen this impending law school interview as a threat, which would explain the timing. I almost feel sorry for Sam – he clearly tried to get out. Almost made it. The autopsy was inconclusive as to whether Jessica was still alive when her body was set on fire, but it seems clear from the police reports that Sam witnessed whatever happened. I wonder if Dean made him watch his girlfriend burn alive, or if he at least had the decency to kill her first."_

Dean slammed the file shut there, unwilling to read any more. But he couldn't keep the scene imagined by Henrikson from playing out in his head: Dean torturing his brother by making Sam watch as he doused a terrified Jessica in lighter fluid and lit a match.

Well. Not lighter fluid – that'd leave evidence behind, and Dean was apparently too well trained to let little things like that slip his mind when brutally murdering friends of loved ones.

Fuck. What kind of monster … He shook his head and let the thought go. He didn't have time to dwell right now.

He flipped through the remaining folders quickly, not really wanting to know what else Henrikson wanted to pin on him, and then moved on to the legal pads.

Three of them were already full, pages dog eared and creased, with paper clips tagging some spots for easy access. The notes inside were scrawled in a messy black hand that didn't match the clean-cut image the agent had presented on TV. Random words were circled, underlined and boxed, with arrows pointing to footnotes in the margins. The story they told was depressingly coherent, however.

These notes all seemed to relate to Dean and Sam's more recent escapades, and Dean was again surprised by how much Henrikson seemed to know. The man, despite the lack of discernible organization, _knew_ them. He'd worked out theories on how they chose their jobs – or, as he called them, victims – that were chillingly accurate. Reading further, Dean could see that the man had figured out that they weren't driving the Impala anymore based on the distance between the gas stops that he'd uncovered. And he was working on narrowing down the list of possible new pimpmobiles based on traffic cam photos taken in places he knew they'd been. It all gave Dean the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

It didn't, however, read like a man about to go off the deep end. The guy seemed … intense. But not desperate. Nothing in the notes screamed vigilante in the making, and Dean wasn't sure what to make of that.

So he kept reading.

The fourth pad was only about one-fourth filled, so Dean surmised that it would have the most current notes. He flipped to the end thinking maybe there would be evidence of what sent him over the edge – and where the edge might be located .

It took him a little while to understand what he found.

It was a list. Dates and coordinates on the left, city names on the right. All places they'd been recently, but not on the dates they corresponded with. Everything was a day or so behind, except the very last entry. The date for Guthrie was spot on.

Dean frowned. That … didn't make sense.

Until he flipped back to the previous page. Then it was all too clear.

"Freak electrical storm," Henrikson had written and circled a few times. Then drawn squares around it for good measure. The effect was that the word stood out like a marquee. Dean stared at it, his heart rate speeding up. What would an FBI agent care about electrical storms? Unless he'd somehow put two and two together and come up with '_x_ equals they would lead him to his quarry.'

But that would mean the electrical storms had been following Dean and Sam. Which would mean the demon was following Dean and Sam.

Which cast the day's events in a whole new light.

The demon had led them to Guthrie. It'd been trailing behind them before for reasons Dean couldn't imagine, but it had used Andy to lure them to Guthrie. Dean didn't know why the idea hadn't occurred to him before.

And Dean doubted that the demon brought them there just so that they would rot in jail – or at least, he doubted that was in its plans for Sam. Which meant it was straining the limits of credulity to believe that the FBI agent just happened to go so nuts that he'd kidnap a suspect at exactly the moment a demon was trying to get to said suspect.

And that changed _everything_.

But it also made Sam a little easier to find. Because underneath the words "freak electrical storm," Henrikson had scratched out a name and phone number. And underneath the name, he'd written "NOAA" – National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. A big fancy name for The Weather Geeks Agency.

Five minutes later, Dean was on the phone with NOAA meteorologist Carey Tomlin, introducing himself as Special Agent Victor Henrikson's partner. Then there was some 'just wondering if any more electrical storms had popped up since Victor called.' It was thankfully met with a 'yes, and here are the coordinates.'

And then Dean was on his way.

OOO

There was a storm brewing in the rearview mirror when The Thing turned the car onto a dirt road – little more than a rutted path hidden between the rows of corn, really. They'd been driving through the endless cornfields of the Midwest for hours, and Victor could say now with some authority that the corn was indeed high as an elephant's eye. But really he was getting more of a Children of the Corn vibe than an Oh What a Beautiful Morning feel.

And lookey there. Man, he hated always being right.

There, in the clearing at the end of the trail were the children of the corn. Or, at least, a few of them were children. The rest were very menacing looking young adults. And they were surrounded by a lot of corn. And one very rickety-looking old house.

They pulled to a stop, and when the locks popped open and Sam's cuffs fell off, Victor wasn't the least bit surprised to see Sam shoot out. He'd dealt with enough Winchester escapes that he could have told The Thing that was going to happen. Not that he would.

Or … well. Maybe he would. He still hadn't decided exactly what outcome he was rooting for here. On the one hand, he believed The Thing when it said it wasn't planning on keeping Sam comfortable, and he really didn't want anything to do with those plans. But on the other hand, God knows Victor had less than no idea how to get out of here on his own, so Sam was running away with his best chance for escaping this mess.

The Thing inside him snickered and tore his gaze away from Sam's sprint for the edge of the corn. Victor found himself again staring into the rearview mirror at the wrongness that was currently his own eyes.

"I wouldn't get too worried about being left behind," it said. "They've been training."

It turned Victor back toward Sam just in time to see the boy go flying inexplicably backward toward the Corn Children. Several of them broke off from the group and headed Sam's way.

"Karen's got the whole throwing things around pretty much down, but she's still working on the fine motor skills involved with holding people in place. It's harder than you would think."

Sam pushed himself up only to spend a couple of seconds wobbling before being thrown down again. By the time he struggled back to his feet, the Corn Children were on him. He raised his fists and Victor wondered just how many people he thought he could fight his way through. But it didn't matter. Sam had only landed a few good blows when a short Asian kid grabbed one of his hands mid punch. Sam immediately went down on his knees, back arching in some pain Victor couldn't account for. The kid let go, and Sam fell the rest of the way down and stayed there.

"Good thing Henry's doing better with his studies," The Thing said. "He's taken it down from electric-chair level to taser strength. Last week he was still killing everything he touched."

As The Thing turned to exit the car, Victor saw from the corner of his eye another one of the kids bend down and heft Sam onto his shoulder as though he weighed nothing. The Thing didn't bother to explain that one, but Victor could guess.

And wasn't that just a bad sign.

The Thing strode past the corn children and Victor lost track of Sam as he made his way into the house. That might have worried him more if he hadn't immediately been presented with a whole new set of worries.

The house was old, built long before the invention of air conditioning, so it was laid out with a long hall running from the front door to the back for airflow. A half a dozen doors opened off on either side of it, and the Thing glanced into each room as it passed, treating Victor to a tour to rival Ripley's Believe It or Not. In the first room on the left, a small boy with dull brown eyes was snapping his fingers in time with the disappearance and reappearance of a flame on a candle.

Across the hall, a preteen girl with blond ringlets was observing with boredom as a roiling twister of debris danced in front of her. After that, there were a couple of rooms with floating furniture, three or four where the kids seemed to be concentrating very hard on something he couldn't see, one that made his hair stand on end just passing the doorway, and one where a little girl seemed to actually be charming a snake.

"Animals are easier to control than humans at first," The Thing murmured to him. Then it was turning into what apparently passed as a master suite in 200-year-old farm houses.

A glance outside the window showed a small cluster of 20-somethings staring unemotionally up at a low-lying thunderhead. The Thing smiled, it's version of pleased, before turning away. As it did so, it caught Victor's reflection in an old spotted mirror hanging on a far wall and walked over to it. It stood there for a moment, taking in the view, leaving Victor plenty of time to contemplate the differences between this and what he usually saw in a mirror.

And there were differences. Victor rarely really relaxed, always held himself ready for action. But The Thing had him looking loose limbed and careless, casual even. Except, again, for the eyes. No one would ever have accused Victor of having gentle eyes, but this … this was different. He wondered what Sam Winchester must have thought, looking up into them from the interrogation room floor. No wonder there had been dread on his face.

The Thing caught him looking and stared back at him with a malicious grin.

"I've been meaning to thank you," it said. "This is one of the best bodies I've ever had the pleasure of … shall we call it renting? People think we demonic types don't appreciate beauty, but we do. We just find it in different places. For instance, the ripple of your biceps earlier, just before your elbow connected with Sam Winchester's head. Work of art, that."

As it said that, the image replayed before Victor's eyes.

"Normally I don't bother with the hand-to-hand stuff. No reason to. But you … you just make it fun." 

Again, Victor's elbow slamming into Sam's cheekbone. The slightly surprised look as his head flew back and ricocheted off the dingy cinder blocks. The truly fearful look afterward. Victor knew he could be scary when he wanted, but no one had ever had cause to look at him like that before.

"Well. First time for everything. You'll get used to it."

Suddenly the memory morphed into something else entirely: Sam, stretched across a bare mattress laid out on a dirty wood floor, hands bound to a post above his head.

A splash of red from the boy's broken lip on the back of Victor's knuckles as he straightened up after a heavy backhand.

The crunch of bone as the dusty toe of Victor's dress shoe slammed into ribs.

Victor's stomach twisted up, and he reminded himself that The Thing said it couldn't predict the future.

"Maybe not," The Thing said, evidently eavesdropping. "But what's going to stop me from bending the future to my will?"


	9. Chapter 9

Sam didn't really know where he was

Note: I'm sorry y'all. I wouldn't blame you if you had given up on me completely. I didn't mean to take so long. But if the weather's nice tomorrow, the busy time at work will be over and I won't have to work anymore weekends until August. And the graduation season has finally ended, so just weddings to deal with now. None this weekend, though, so I might even be able to get another chapter out in the next couple of days to make up for taking so long with this one. I hope you won't give up on me.

And a warning: In the interest of finally getting this out, Mazza hasn't had final approval. So beware.

Chapter 9

Sam didn't really know where he was. Based on the architecture, he'd guess San Francisco. But it was just a guess, because the buildings were mostly burned-out, windowless husks with large chunks missing, and some of the things he thought might should be there were gone all together. Not even piles of rubble to mark their places.

But … hadn't he been in Oklahoma the last time he was aware of being anywhere? And hadn't San Francisco still been a city and not a wasteland?

Movement a few yards up what may have been Market Street at some point in the distant past snagged his attention. A group of burly men were facing a lone boy who could have played a Dickensian street urchin without any makeup.

Sam frowned and moved toward the group. He couldn't let a gang of grown men beat up a little boy, regardless of where – or when – he was.

He stopped, though, when he heard the chanting. He could tell it was chanting – knowing dozens of different chants in at least eight languages, he was intimately familiar with the cadence of a sacred ritual. But he couldn't understand it. Couldn't even identify the language past that it sounded ancient. Maybe an early version of Hebrew.

The flash of yellow in the kid's eyes gave him some idea as to its purpose, however.

The men circled the boy, chanting steadily. When he was completely surrounded they joined hands, and Sam shook his head in confusion. What did they think this bizarre version of Ring Around the Rosey would do to hold a demon?

Then he saw the tattoos etched on the backs of their hands. And again, though he didn't exactly recognize the symbol, he could guess its purpose.

They'd made themselves into some sort of devil's trap.

The child turned a slow circle, yellow light blazing in his eyes. Every few steps, one of the links in the circle would buck a little, as if shoved, but no one broke the connection. After a few repetitions the group ceased the chant, and the one man who had held back from the circle stepped forward.

His words sounded somehow more ancient than even the chant – simple, like maybe they were from before the world got complicated. And Sam still didn't understand, but he … recognized them. Like the way Adam and Eve just knew that a tiger was a tiger. Sam knew instinctively what the words meant, what their result would be when strung together.

It was just too bad that what he was seeing was too far into the future to be of any use to him.

It was a vision. Different than any vision he'd had in the past, though -- more cohesive and real. But then, they'd always seemed to get stronger the closer he got to the demon and the other kids. And he was pretty sure where he was now counted as closer.

He looked around again, wondering how long it took the world to get to this state of things – a city like San Francisco abandoned as a ghost town. And he wondered where these future hunters had found such an ancient ritual and whether it would help set things right.

It certainly seemed to be doing its job with the demon. The little boy was trembling violently, and the yellow light seemed to have grown brighter. Sam wasn't sure the kid would survive the process, but for once he was willing to try and believe the end might justify the means.

Still, it wasn't something he actually wanted to see, so he was glad when he was suddenly pulled out of the vision, despite the pain that accompanied the change.

Then again, when he realized he was squinting up into the yellowed eyes of Agent Henrikson, he found himself thinking this wasn't really an improvement at all.

OOO

"What was that?" Victor heard himself asking, his tone losing its casual unconcern for the first time since all this started. And if Victor hadn't been afraid already, that would have done it.

For his part, Sam didn't really seem to register the change right away. When Victor had wandered into the room, the kid had still been unconscious – not to mention tied to the same grimy mattress The Thing had shown Victor in the … what was he even supposed to call that? It's not a hallucination if it's real, right?

But almost as soon as Victor stepped through the doorway, Sam began to stir, a pained expression settling on his face as his eyes twitched beneath closed lids. For some reason, Victor could feel this making The Thing mad. And based on the cruelty he'd already witnessed while The Thing was in a good mood, he guessed making it angry was Very Bad.

There was a prickling between Victor's shoulder blades that reminded him of the way you can feel a thunderstorm coming in the charge of the air outside. A kind of inaudible buzz filled the room as Sam finally winced and woke, not really seeing anything at first. Victor could tell the exact moment the haze of pain resolved into reality, however – then Sam's first impulse was to jolt upward, introducing him to his bonds the hard way.

The Thing took no notice of his disorientation. "What was that?" it growled again. "What did you see?"

Sam shrank back into the mattress a bit, but the momentary glimmer of fear quickly hardened into determination. He didn't answer the question, and Victor noticed him straining against the rope, testing it for weakness.

The kid's show of self control seemed to bring The Thing in Victor back to its senses, and the stormy rage suddenly turned off. But it left behind a carefully contained wrath that Victor suspected might be even worse.

"You can't keep things from me, Sam," it said. "You might as well go ahead and tell me. Because the alternative is probably not going to be so fun for you."

Still nothing from Sam, though he looked like he was bracing himself for … well, Victor couldn't even imagine what he was bracing for.

In response, Victor felt the muscles in his jaw tighten and actually heard his teeth grind.

"Let me tell you a little bit about your life from here on out," The Thing said. "You're mine, and you serve me. That's all. As I said before, I don't really need you to agree to the terms. You're mine, and you serve me. Whether or not you do it willingly is a matter of supreme indifference to me, except that when I have to look for what I want, it takes longer and will tend to put you out of commission for a few hours afterward. Hours in which I might otherwise put you to use. So. You can save me some time and yourself some discomfort and _tell_ me what you just saw, or I can figure it out for myself."

"I'm not making anything easy for you," Sam said through clenched teeth.

The Thing shrugged Victor's shoulder. "Fair enough," it said, then crouched down beside the mattress.

"I know what you're doing, Sam. I can guess why you wouldn't want me to see. But I'm going to, one way or another. This is your last chance to have a say in whether it's the one way or the other."

Sam held Victor's gaze steadily. Pain creases showed in the corners of his eyes, but nothing else.

"Fine," The Thing said. "The other it is."

Victor's hand shot out and clamped onto the side of Sam's face. Sam tried for a moment to twist away from the grasp, but quickly gave up the struggle in favor of focusing all his energy on not screaming. Victor got a brief glimpse of the straining tendons in Sam's neck before his view changed entirely. A chaotic jumble of colors and faces and places whizzed past, none stopping long enough for him to identify. The blur was enough to make him dizzy, even experiencing it secondhand. He didn't wonder at the pain it seemed to be causing Sam.

Then it stopped, and suddenly Victor was watching a group of chanting men surround a little boy with yellow eyes.

Before the scene really finished playing out, the image faded and Sam Winchester was again in front of Victor. The kid looked spent – sweaty and pale, eyes struggling to maintain half mast. Pulling against the ropes or even turning away from Victor's touch now seemed beyond him.

The Thing just sneered. "Next time, you'll know."

It sat there for a moment, considering him, then let loose heavy backhand. Sam's head lolled to the side and stayed there, a trickle of blood dripping from his lip to the mattress. "It won't happen," The Thing hissed. "I'll make sure not one of them even makes it out of childhood. I'll be around for eons after you're gone."

OOO

Sam had just about decided that there was no way he could be that important to the demon's plans. No way. Because he'd been with said demon less than 24 hours, and he really didn't see how he'd make it many more. And wouldn't you think that someone important to a plan would also be important to keep alive?

He thought the answer to that was yes, but to tell the truth, he was having problems with logical thought just now, so he could be wrong.

Speaking of dying – he had been speaking of dying, hadn't he? He thought so, but … Anyway. He was speaking of it now, by God, and it was sounding pretty good.

He wondered, abstractly, if the real reason John told Dean he should kill Sam rather than let the demon get him was because he _knew_. Knew that it would be a kindness. Knew that this would be absolutely unbearable. In the literal sense: unbearable in a way that was absolute. A lot of people said absolute but didn't really mean it. Sam meant it. Absolute: perfectly embodying the nature of a thing. Absolutely unbearable: perfectly embodying the nature of unbearable.

Possibly his mind was wandering again. But maybe he should let it. In a few minutes, the demon would be back, and Sam would have no choice in what he thought about.

The demon had been back several times already, each time with a different "chosen one" in tow. With them and the demon in the same room, it only took a touch to bring on a vision. So far, Sam had watched one girl, about his age, calmly talk the first half of a stadium full of football fans into taking a collective nose dive over the back of the nosebleed section. Only the first half, though, because after the first few thousand piled up, the fall wasn't fatal and the girl got bored.

Sam saw another of the special kids – he was pretty sure it was the one who had taken him down outside – use his electrical prowess to knock out both the primary and backup power at a long series of hospitals and nursing homes. Then there was the one who rained down actual fire from heaven just as Santa Claus was rolling by in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Some were more mundane, up close killings. But while they were smaller in scope, they were somehow harder to watch.

Well, harder emotionally. They were all equally hard to watch, physically. And though Sam never would have expected to say so, the emotional pain – horrible though it was – was completely overshadowed by the physical pain.

And for the record, he used the word "completely" in the literal sense, too.

Sam had no resources left for empathizing with the poor woman who was going to be talked into shooting her husband and teenaged son, then left to decide for herself what to do with the last bullet. It was devastating to watch, but once the demon-sanctioned replay started, the white hot stake driving through his skull pushed all thought right on out. Even in the aftermath all his energy was focused on the pain. Not dealing with it, mind you – there was no dealing with it – but the pain itself. There was no room for thoughts of anything else.

It had been maybe an hour since the last one, and Sam was finally getting to the point where he could detach from the pain a bit. That would have been good news except that he had learned from experience that this meant the demon would be back soon for more. And that knowledge was almost enough to break him.

It was more than enough to make him wish Dean had gone ahead and offed him back when Meg had him. It would have been rough on Dean, he knew – but so would this. Well, if Dean ever found out about this, that is. For all Sam knew, Dean would be spending the rest of his life locked up in Oklahoma. Well. Probably not Oklahoma. Sam couldn't recall anything particularly bad that they would be wanted for in Oklahoma. Missouri, maybe. Or Maryland. Which, he guessed, if he had to choose a place to be locked up, were better than Oklahoma with all its damned corn.

OOO

'Damn all this damned corn already,' Dean thought.

He was at the coordinates the NOAA guy had given him, but there was nothing here but a thin strip of asphalt surrounded by an _unholy_ amount of corn. Dean was seriously considering just lighting a match and clearing out the lot of it. Would have, probably, if he weren't worried that Sam was out there in it somewhere.

He slowed the truck down to a crawl and drove a mile with his eyes glued to one side of the road, then turned around and repeated the routine in the other direction. Halfway though the grid, he came across a narrow dirt road through the corn. Just wide enough for the truck to fit through if he wasn't worried about the paint job.

He wasn't, but he decided it would probably be best to approach on foot, anyway. He backed the truck up a bit and drove straight into the corn on the other side of the road, for once glad that he wasn't in the Impala. He made a couple of turns – flattening the corn as he went – until he couldn't see the road at all. Then he got out and moved to the toolbox.

He surveyed the weapons collection with disgust. He'd chosen what to carry out of the Logan County Jail based on what was irreplaceable and what would be useful in taking down a regular person. None of it would be any help against _the_ demon. Then again, he hadn't left behind anything that would help either, as far as he knew. There was nothing that would help. Not anymore.

Well, he'd just have to avoid the demon all together. Steal Sam right out from under his nose and live to fight another day. It'd be difficult, he was sure. But Dean knew how to be stealthy.

He grabbed a couple of guns, a pocketful of extra bullets and a bottle of Holy water, thinking it couldn't hurt. The thought that logically followed that -- that those things had proven in the past _not_ to help -- stopped him short. This felt too much like going after Dad this time last year.

Only – Meg's little game earlier notwithstanding – the demon had never seemed interested in possessing Sammy. Which left Dean to fill Dad's shoes. And no way did he want to be on the other side of that scene.

He closed the toolbox and walked back around to the cab. He dug around for a minute until he found the evidence bag holding his personal effects. Inside was the charm Bobby had given him. He shoved it back in his pocket and prayed it worked as advertised.

Then he set off through the field, across the highway and down the dirt road, stomach twisting at the thought of what he might find at the end.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Note: I know apologies don't really mean anything unless you try and change your behavior, but I swear, I'm not meaning to take so long in between updates. Next time I promise it won't be so long. I'm taking next week off at work, and pretty much everyone I know is on a honeymoon right now, so it's not like I'll have anything else to do besides read and write.

As always, thanks so much to Mazza.

Chapter 10

Despite all evidence to the contrary, the damn corn did not go on forever, and after less than a mile Dean came upon a decrepit old farmhouse, gray and sagging, with black voids where window panes should be.

And yet people still seemed to be living in it. That right there was cause enough for suspicion. Dean ducked off the trail and into the corn; from there he could circle the property without ever leaving his hiding space.

It only took a quarter of a circle for him to verify that this was indeed the place he was looking for. The two children out front playing a subdued game of catch with balls of fire kind of gave it away. And the ones felling – and then _re-righting_ – the property's lone tree didn't do much to relieve him of that opinion.

Apparently the demon held day camps for his special kids. Crap. As if avoiding the demon hadn't been a tall enough order.

Dean crouched inside the edge of the corn for a moment, wondering how to get past them. He was spared the trouble, though, when all the kids suddenly stopped what they were doing and, as one, swiveled their heads toward the house. Without a word, they all moved toward the front door and went in.

'Huh,' Dean thought, a little unnerved. 'Must be some kind of psychic version of a dinner bell.'

Regardless, Dean wasn't above taking advantage of random fits of good fortune. After the last kid disappeared inside, he ran toward the house and started peeking in windows. All of the rooms they led to were empty.

Except one.

Dean knew, he _knew_, coming into this that he wasn't going to find Sam waiting for him with a book and an ice cream cone. But somehow the sight of his little brother still came as a sucker punch to the gut.

There was still just enough light left in the day to make out the bare room through the rotting curtains. Just enough to see his brother draped haphazardly over a grimy mattress, hands pulled back above his head and tied to a support post.

"Sam!" he couldn't help but hiss, fingers clenching involuntarily around the window sill. But Sam didn't move, and everything in Dean was vibrating with the urgency of _getting to Sam_.

Dean made short work of sticking his hand through one of the empty panes and pushing the window open. Half a minute later, he was by Sammy's side. The view was only slightly better from there.

Sam's eyes were slits, but they were open, which meant he wasn't unconscious – which was possibly the first good news Dean had had all day and the only reason he was able to keep breathing. Besides a busted lip, a few bruises and bloody wrists wounds that Dean assumed came from trying to twist out of the ropes, Sam seemed pretty much OK. Sweaty and pale, but certainly better than Dean had feared. Except that he didn't even seem to have noticed that Dean was there.

"Sam," Dean whispered, trying to keep his voice from trembling as he slapped Sam's cheek gently. "Sam, wake up, man. We gotta get you out of here."

Sam's eyes fluttered a bit before sliding into semi-awareness and fixing loosely on Dean.

"Dean?" he said thickly, and all the knots in Dean's stomach clenched just a little tighter at everything Sam managed to convey in the one word.

"Yeah, man, it's me," Dean said, for the first time wishing for Sam's long hair back. Without it to push out of Sam's face, he had no good excuse to keep touching him. "I'm here. I'm here to get you."

Sam's frown deepened. "Jail?" he asked.

"Busted out. Dude – I can't believe you escaped without me." He tried for a weak smile.

Sam nodded weakly, seemed unable to work up the kind of energy it'd take to rebut Dean's accusation. And that worried Dean – Sam never passed up a chance to correct or argue with him.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean asked. "What'd they do?"

The question seemed to trigger something in Sam. His eyes suddenly lit up with what looked to Dean like terror.

"Dean," Sam said, suddenly pleading. "You've got to do it."

"Do what?" Dean said, confused.

"What Dad said, you've got to do what Dad said."

There was only one thing Sam could mean, but Dean decided to play dumb anyway. After all, Sam was hardly in any shape to endure the right hook the words would normally provoke in Dean.

"I am, Sam," Dean said, trying to convey with his tone that there would be no arguing the point. "I'm saving you, just like Dad said."

Sam didn't take the hint, though. Didn't even seem to notice there was a hint. "No, Dean," he said, voice breaking a little on Dean's name. Above the ropes, his hands clenched in white-knuckled fists. "You've got … to kill me, OK? Kill me – and then the rest if you can. OK?" 

"Sam. No. Come on. Look – he got you. The demon got you, and you're still not evil. I think you can stop worrying about going bad."

Sam winced as some imperceptible pain wave hit, and Dean decided not to wait for the end of this conversation to start working on the ropes.

"Nuh," Sam slurred. "Doesn't … matter. He'll … use me anyway. Already started."

"What?" Dean exclaimed, whipping back to face Sam. "What do you mean? How did he use you?"

Sam didn't answer for a moment, and Dean moved back toward his head, worried that Sam had given into unconsciousness. "Sam? Come on, man, stay with me." He tried slapping Sam's cheeks again, and Sam's eyes jerked back open. Dean almost regretted it, though, when he saw the pain register again on Sam's face.

"What happened, Sam?" he asked urgently. "How'd the demon use you?"

"Visions," Sam said, groaning weakly as another wave hit. "He takes my visions so he knows what happens."

That explained the pain, Dean thought – and tried not to think any further. Like, about what that might be doing to the inside of Sam's head.

But it didn't explain why Sam thought it was fratricide worthy. And Dean really didn't think he should take the time to figure it out, so he was just going to assume that Sam was wrong. It was generally a good policy.

"Well, if we get you out of here, then he won't be able to anymore," he said instead, moving back to the ropes.

Sam gave a feeble attempt at shaking his head. "No," he said. "No, you don't understand. He wins, Dean. I saw it. Decades, maybe centuries from now, he's still around. And they were going to finally kill him, but I saw it and now he knows and he'll stop it."

The explanation was a bit garbled, but Dean got the gist, and for a second he forgot to keep working on the ropes.

It was going to win? The demon wins? How … how could that be? That just …

Dean had always said he didn't believe in God, but that wasn't exactly true. He believed that there must have been a god or gods at some point – it only made sense, you know? Why would demons flinch at the name of God if God was made up? And besides, the bad guy's not bad unless there's a good guy to compare him to, right? Otherwise he's just a guy, the only guy.

And not like people came up with the idea of good on their own, Dean knew that much. People were evil in ways demons didn't have the imagination for.

But Dean hadn't seen any evidence that the good guys were still around. Maybe Nietzsche was right and God was dead. Maybe the demon and his cronies had won a long time ago, and Dean and Sam had never even had a chance. Whatever the case, it broke something in Dean to hear Sam state it as fact.

It might have even been enough to convince him to give up – if giving up hadn't meant giving up Sam. But while they might lose the war, the battle for Sam was going to be Dean's. He'd make his own damn miracles if he had to.

Dean shook his head, banishing any and all doubts, and went back to working on Sam's bonds. Then, seeing that his fingers were doing no good, he took out his knife.

"Dean," Sam said desperately, realizing that Dean hadn't been deterred from his rescue mission. "Please, Dean. It could happen again, and the demon might never die."

Dean was about to snap at Sam to shut the hell up because they weren't talking about this anymore right now, when the door flew open and a very pissed looking FBI agent walked in.

OOO

The Thing had been in the middle of some kind of violent debrief with the Corn Kids, going over what it had learned from Sam's … whatever, when it just stopped. The next thing Victor knew, he was slamming down the hall, the door to Sam's room flying open in front of him.

And then came the real surprise.

Somehow, despite the hundreds of hours Victor had spent learning everything he could about the man and all his ridiculous, inexplicable escapes, he still couldn't believe what he was seeing. A bearded, black-haired Dean Winchester was kneeling over his brother with a knife, murder in his eyes. For just a second, he looked every bit the monster Victor had pegged him to be.

And then, suddenly, he looked like the miracle Victor had been praying for. That was when Victor _got_ it. He got just how far off base he'd been, how everything could have gotten twisted around.

Not that he had much time to savor that feeling. By the time Victor had processed the idea that hope had arrived, The Thing had Victor's arm up, swinging it in an arc that Victor had leaned to associate with people flying into walls.

Only Dean didn't. He look like he expected to, flinching just a bit and bracing for the blow. But when nothing happened, it only took a second for him to get over the surprise. Then he was on his feet, moving to stand between Victor and Sam, a determined – if somewhat dubious – look on his face.

The Thing sneered at him.

"I take it you stopped to raid the evidence lockers on your way out of Guthrie. A shame you couldn't have hurried a bit. I know Sammy was kind of hoping you would."

It took a few steps into the room, toward Dean who backed up until his heels were against the mattress. Whether the move stemmed from fear or protectiveness, Victor couldn't tell. The kid had a poker face to rival Victor's own. He didn't react at all to The Thing's insinuation, and Victor allowed himself to be a little impressed.

"But hey, you're here now, right? So, A for effort! And in the end, you know, it won't matter one way or the other. You're still going to die. And Sam's still going to be playing my own personal crystal ball for the rest of his life."

Dean's fists clenched like he wanted to start swinging them, but he didn't. Instead he said, "Big talk for a man waving his arms around like a feakin' band director." 

The Thing pulled Victor's face into a thoughtful frown. "Good point," it said. "You're right. I can't get at you like I'd like to right now. But the thing is, I'm a clever guy, able to think on my feet – or on someone else's feet, as the case may be. I may not be able to touch you with that charm in your pocket, but I'm hardly the only game in town."

It turned toward the door. "Ed, Harry," he called. "Come give me a hand in here."

It was turning back when Victor realized its tactical mistakes – it had admitted to Dean that it couldn't hurt him and then turned Victor's back on him. Victor thought the smile he was feeling almost broke through as he was slammed into the wall.

OOO

Sam was having some trouble following Dean's conversation with the demon, but Dean launching himself at it was easy enough to understand.

At first he was astonished by Dean's stupidity. But then a hazy memory of the demon talking about the charms Bobby had given them came to mind. That tempered Sam's assessment of Dean's intellect – or lack thereof – but didn't entirely discount it.

He almost called out to Dean to let him know how stupid he was being, but stopped himself just in time – while Dean getting into a fist fight with a demon was bad, distracting Dean while he was in a fist fight with a demon was worse. And it looked like Dean didn't need any distractions. He wasn't getting the beating he normally would have from a demon, but it wasn't going quite as well as the last time Sam and Dean had fought Agent Henrikson.

Dean had the FBI agent's body pinned to the wall with his shoulder and was trying to get his other arm close enough to put the knife he'd been using on Sam's ropes to good use. But even without access to his regular powers, the demon had all of Henrikson's strength, and the knife wasn't getting any closer. Sam pulled weakly at the ropes, but they didn't seem any loser than they had before Dean arrived.

Then two of the psychic kids appeared at the door, and Sam redoubled his efforts, gritting his teeth through the pain – he remembered the demon explaining that, too. It hadn't been able to get to them, but Andy had had no trouble.

"Get him!" the demon ground out in Henrikson's voice, and the Asian kid Sam remembered vaguely from outside – and more clearly from visions of room after room of heart monitors going dead – moved forward.

Sam was hit with a sudden vision – or maybe it was more of a memory – of Dean slumped, unmoving against a dingy wall in a dim room. Skin pale, but with a bright red area on his chest shining through a singed hole in his shirt.

And that's all it took.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean lay on the floor for a second, stunned, before deciding that probably wasn't the best defensive position and hurrying to

Note: I'm not even going to bother apologizing because I know it must be getting old. I'll just say that it's not like you were hard up for reading material or anything. I know because I basically spent a solid week doing nothing but reading Supernatural fanfic and Harry Potter. I occasionally stopped to eat, but even then I took a book with me. It was a _lovely_ vacation.

Also, Mazza is awesome and took time to edit this while she was on vacation.

Chapter 11

Dean lay still for a second, trying to figure out what had happened, then realized now was _not_ the time and hurried into a more defensible position.

Once he got there, he found that he could have taken his time. Henrikson seemed to be conscious, but was still collecting himself. The same for one of the two kids he'd called in; the other looked to be down for the count.

Which left Sam. Who wasn't moving. At all.

Dean crossed the room in a couple of steps and was back to kneeling at Sam's side, slapping his cheek and hissing his name. It didn't work, though. Sam's eyes stayed stubbornly closed. Dean glanced back over his shoulder at Henrikson, who had rolled over and was working on pushing himself up. Dean debated for a second whether to see if he could finish the man off while he was down. But he doubted that was possible, even if something strange did seem to be going on. And he hated to pass up a chance to get Sam out. A brother in the hand was worth a demon in the bush. Or something like that.

So he moved back to the ropes. But there was no need – Sam's hands were still tied together, but the length connecting them to the post seemed to have been … well, it looked like ripped off. The ends were frayed and unraveling as if they'd been pulled apart. And the post itself was bowed out around a break about halfway up. Dean shook his head, again wondering what had happened – but he chose to save any further contemplation for later.

He hoisted Sam over his shoulder and struggled to rise. But when he turned toward the door, he found he was too late: A swarm of blank-faced psychics stared back at him. Some of them had blood trickling from their ears or over their upper lips, but they didn't seem to notice.

Henrikson stood up slowly, rubbing the back of his head and wiping away a nose bleed of his own.

"So. Sammy's learned a new trick," he said. "Where did he pick that up?"

Dean just glowered back at the man, hoping his confusion wasn't showing. Because – what the hell? He couldn't … Was he saying … That was _Sam_? _Sam_ did that? He knocked the whole _room_ on their asses – and, from the looks of it, maybe even the whole _house_?

Dean suddenly remembered a quiet confession in a Saginaw motel room – _I moved it, Dean. Like Max. I saw you die, and it just came out of me, like a punch. Like a freak adrenaline thing._

Henrikson had been watching him shrewdly and nodded to himself. "Interesting. I may have to eat my words about him not being soldier material."

Dean's lips curled in a sneer. "Guess you'd have to be able to take him from me first, wouldn't you?"

With a smile that could hardly even be called a smile, Henrikson said, "Sam's the only reason you haven't already been flambéed, boy, and he doesn't really seem to be in any position to save your ass again."

It took a concentrated effort, but Dean was pretty sure his face stayed blank, apart from maybe a jaw twitch. He really didn't know what his next move would be. He doubted the element of surprise would be enough to let him barrel through the psychic kids. And he wasn't sure throwing Sam out the window, then diving through behind him was such a good plan, either. He couldn't fight his way out effectively without putting Sam down. But putting Sam down would make taking advantage of any opening in the crowd at the door difficult.

Sam would tell him to get out – leave Sam behind and come back with reinforcements when he had a better chance of getting them both out in one piece. He could almost hear Sam saying it, and it made more sense than he was willing to admit. Dean's chances of getting out alive weren't looking real good, and if he went down, no one was coming for Sam. Sam would be abandoned to torture at the demon's hands for however long he lasted, and the demon might get information out of him that meant it never died.

The alternative was leaving Sam here and making an unencumbered break for it, then coming back with a plan that went past "get Sam out." Maybe even involved a call to Bobby and Ellen and Joshua and whomever else he could think of. Both of their long-term chances were better in the second scenario, but Dean didn't think he could do it, didn't think he was strong enough to leave Sam behind, at the demon's mercy, injured and in pain. Not even for a little while. Not even if it was the right choice.

It might be the smart thing to do, but Dean had never claimed to be the smart one.

He slowly lowered Sam to the floor, telling himself that he didn't have to make the decision now. Chances were, no opportunity to escape alone would present itself, anyway. In the meantime, his best chance at getting them both out now was to fight. And for that he needed to have his hands free. Besides, this way at least Sam wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. Who knows? If Dean didn't make it, there was always the possibility that Sam would find a way to run on his own. So the healthier he was, the better.

The demon followed Dean's movement keenly and grinned as he straightened back up.

"Decided to stand and fight, huh?" he said. "You know, eventually I'm going to stop being surprised by the Winchester stupidity." Without breaking eye contact or letting the grin slip, he jerked his chin at one of the psychics. "Kyle, why don't you get some practice in."

OOO

Victor recognized the kid that stepped forward as the one who picked Sam up with such ease earlier that afternoon. He was just a skinny kid, probably 18, 20 at the most. But Sam was much bigger than he was, and it looked to Victor like the kid could have bench pressed him without breaking a sweat. Any hope Victor had held onto that Dean Winchester could somehow get him out of this died a pitiful death.

Kyle glared menacingly at Dean, who just looked confused to see that kind of posturing on such a beanpole. Then Kyle threw the first punch.

And Dean dodged.

Just barely – it clearly wasn't the attack he'd been expecting, but he managed. Then Kyle tried again. And Dean dodged again, then threw one of his own. It landed solidly on the left side of Kyle's stunned face. The boy reeled, and Dean wasn't above taking advantage of it. He soon had the kid doubled over and gasping for breath.

By this time Victor could feel The Thing's anger like a physical presence. "Aaron, help him," it commanded. Victor thought Aaron was the one Sam had dreamed about sending balls of fire down on kids collecting candy at the Thanksgiving parade, but no one came forward.

The Thing turned toward the group in the door. "Where's Aaron?" it snarled.

The Corn Kids exchanged glances as blank as all their other expressions before one offered an explanation in the flat, bored tone they used when they spoke at all. "He didn't get up," the kid said.

"What?" The Thing asked, sharply. In his peripheral vision, Victor saw Kyle finally land a punch. Dean hardly blinked.

"When we all fell down, he was one of the ones that didn't get back up. Like Henry," a different Corn Kid said, gesturing toward the Asian man that had electrocuted Sam. He'd been unconscious since Sam had done whatever it was The Thing thought he'd done. The Thing directed Victor's gaze back toward Sam, who was still lying motionless on the other side of the fight. Victor felt his jaw tighten.

"OK," The Thing said, it's voice dangerously low. "Kevin. You take care of it."

A twenty-something Victor didn't remember seeing so far pushed his way through the door, then drew back his arm as if to throw something.

But nothing happened. He tried again, and then again, but with the same result. Dean spared him a puzzled glance from where he was standing over Kyle, who had finally gone down and stayed down. Dean wasn't even breathing hard.

Victor felt the tension that had been building between his shoulder blades suddenly break at the exact moment a loud crack of lightning struck the lone tree outside the window. The storm that had been gathering and dissipating all day seemed to have finally made up its mind to let loose.

"I don't care who does it or how, just get rid of him," The Thing yelled.

The Corn Kids surged forward, all seeming intent on taking Dean down. There were probably close to 20 in all, but more than half were just kids, and of those that weren't, none looked to be in better than average shape. Within minutes Dean had greatly decreased his odds.

"Enough," The Thing bellowed. The Corn Kids came to a standstill so quickly Dean almost lost his balance throwing a punch that no longer had a mark.

"I don't know how Sam did that," it said in a low, dangerous voice that seemed pitched to match the increasing gloom outside, "but it doesn't matter. We'll settle this between you and me, Dean, and once you're out of the way, I'll dig around in Sam's head until I find a way to turn them all back on. He will wish he hadn't interrupted – he'll wish he let you die."

Dean didn't quite hide the fear the words inspired, and Victor couldn't think less of him for it. The chill in its tone seemed to be actually affecting the temperature in the room. The tingle of energy at the back of Victor's neck had reached a pitch that would have had him squirming if he'd been in control of his body. He'd been hitting record fear levels since he'd walked into Sam Winchester's interrogation room this morning, but this was the worst by far.

Somehow, though, Dean managed to square his shoulders and look The Thing right in Victor's eyes.

"You can't touch me," he said. "I may not know why, but I'm not much inclined to care. I'm taking Sam. And you can't stop me."

Dean turned his back to Victor with an air of finality, but in the same instant, Sam snapped to consciousness with an agonized scream. It was the first one Victor had heard out of him despite all he'd gone through, so Victor couldn't imagine what must be causing it. He didn't really want to.

Dean rushed to Sam's side, frantically grabbing at Sam's shoulders, taking Sam's face between his hands.

"Sam? Sam! What is it?" Dean suddenly pulled his hand away as if burned. He stared at it in horror and even across the room Victor could make out the blood. Dean spun to face him.

"What did you do?" he demanded with fear-fed rage. With the shift in position, Victor had a clear view of Sam. His face was screwed up with pain, and blood was trickling from his ear and nose at an alarmingly steady rate.

"I can't touch you," The Thing explained in the voice Victor used to convince criminals they might as well confess because he already knew _everything_, "because of the charm you're carrying. Sam doesn't have one. And until you get rid of yours, I'm going to use the tools I've got."

It took Dean a second to process that, and The Thing apparently decided it was necessary to spur him to action. Sam's back arched off the floor as another assault tore a ragged moan from his clenched teeth. Dean flinched at the sound and reached behind him to lay a hand on his brother's chest.

"OK, OK! I'll give it to you, just stop!"

Sam relaxed instantly and started gasping for breath, a shell-shocked look in his eyes.

Dean rose shakily from his crouch, arms out placatingly.

"OK, OK," he repeated, chest heaving in time with Sam's pants. "OK."

He reached a trembling hand into his pocket and pulled out a small pewter charm Victor remembered seeing in the evidence collection in Guthrie. Dean held it out to his side, the way he might have handled a gun when faced with armed officers.

"Just drop it there," The Thing said.

Dean stared at Victor for a moment, and Victor wondered if The Thing was capable of seeing all that was going on behind the man's eyes. Victor could. He could see the wheels turning, see Dean processing the realization that Sam was damned if Dean did and damned if Dean didn't. That neither of them was getting out of this.

Then something hardened in Dean's eye, and Victor knew he'd come to some kind of decision. He crouched down as though planning to set the charm on the ground, then swiveled and pressed it quickly into Sam's bloody hands.

The moment he'd uncurled his fingers, Dean was flying backward into a wall.

The Thing strolled casually toward him, stepping unceremoniously over Sam. When it had crossed the room, it stopped and stared at Dean for a moment, then smiled.

"It doesn't matter," it said. "Even without their gifts, my kids can take it from him. How's he going to stop them? So you and I will just finish up our business, and then I'll move on to Sam.

"Now. Where did we leave off last time? Oh. Right."

Suddenly Dean had threw his head back, choking on a scream he was unwilling to let out. And Victor had a phantom impression of something warm and slimy oozing between his fingers.


	12. Chapter 12

Something was

Chapter 12

Something was … happening. Somewhere. It was … important for some reason, Sam felt sure. Or … not sure. It was hard to say. It was hard to do anything, actually. But … there was … something he should be … doing something about. Wasn't there? 

It took more effort than he would really have expected to be capable of – had he been capable of forming and evaluating expectations – but he managed to roll onto his stomach. With his hands trapped, still bound beneath him, and his face mashed into the splintering floor, Sam blinked and squinted, trying to coax his eyes into focusing.

What he saw confused him. Dean was pressed against the wall, face contorted in agony and blood bubbling up from nowhere. Was this … a dream? A memory? Sam had already lived this hadn't he?

Except … that wasn't Dad. And while generally he'd consider that change an improvement on the actual circumstance, for some reason this wasn't. That man. Sam should know him, should recognize him … He was …

Oh God. He was Agent Henrikson. Which meant this wasn't a dream or a memory, this was _now_, this was happening _again_. They were right back in that fucking cabin where everything fell to pieces – only worse because there was no Dad to stop it, no gun to stop it and Sam _couldn't stop it_.

Sam was right in the middle of panicking when it hit. At first he thought it was another vision, but the pain was different, worse than a vision – more like when the demon was riffling through his head to find a vision and watch it for himself. And when the scene behind his eyes resolved into clarity, Sam recognized it.

It was the broken down city again, the yellow-eyed boy, the ring of men with their tattoos and the chant, the simple, ancient chant that was driving the demon out for good.

And then he was back in the farmhouse, panting and working on figuring out how to keep his brain from oozing out his ears. He wasn't panicking anymore, though. He had one crystal clear thought and he didn't know where it had come from, but he was clinging to it with everything in him.

'If it would work for them, why not me?'

He didn't know where those future hunters had uncovered the ritual, but it didn't matter. They had done his work for him. All he had to do was remember the words, and it was hard to think around the pain right now, but he'd manage. He would. It would work. He'd seen it work – three times now. The words were ingrained in his head.

Suddenly, though, they were drowned out, and Sam's eyes flew open. Dean. Dean had let out an aborted kind of scream that was almost a sob and it was the worst thing Sam had ever heard in a long list of horrible things. Dean didn't scream, and he certainly didn't sob. He just … didn't. And if he did, then …

Sam had to get up. He had to get up now and he had to do something.

He had to start chanting.

It wouldn't really work. Without a Devil's Trap to hold the thing still, the demon was just going to leave, and maybe they'd be doing this again in a month, but at least Dean would be there to do it again in a month. Gone was good enough, even if it wasn't permanent.

Sam started whispering the words from his dream. They tangled up a bit in his tongue at first, but through the haze that was currently his vision he thought he saw the demon twitch ever so slightly. It didn't, however, stop whatever it was doing that was making Dean turn so white.

With as much energy as he could muster – and then a little bit more that he really didn't even have – Sam twisted and contorted, trying to work his hands into a position that would allow him to push up with them. It was so much harder than it should have been, and Sam wasn't even sure what he was going to do when he got them there.

He almost fell when he felt something slice into the fleshy part of his left palm. He looked down and slid his hands carefully to the side. A thin trail of blood followed, leading back to one of Bobby's charms, a small, gory point sticking up.

Which explained a lot. If Sam had been able to stop chanting long enough, he'd have damned Dean and his ridiculous protective streak.

But it also gave him an idea. Maybe he _could_ end this today.

With a new urgency, he maneuvered the charm into his right hand and pushed himself up with a great heave. He had to pause in the chanting when the sudden activity caused a coughing fit. He tasted blood in the back of his throat and his arms trembled under his weight. But he stayed up, and that was what mattered.

Having, effectively, only one hand made it awkward, but he set off in a slow, limping crawl toward Dean and Henrikson. They weren't more than a few steps away, but it felt like miles. He kept the chant low the whole time, and as far as he could tell the demon hadn't really registered its effects yet. A faint tick in his left shoulder blade was the only thing to give Sam hope that it was working.

Lightning struck near enough to make the old house shake. Sam could practically smell the electricity in the air.

He was almost there. If he could just tell himself it would be over once he got there … but that would only be the beginning. Or maybe the end. Something. Just …

There. He lurched forward, throwing himself at Agent Henrikson's knees.

OOO

Victor was trying very hard not to look at the blood welling up through Dean Winchester's shirt, but The Thing wasn't giving him much of a choice. It was enjoying this, Victor could feel it. And even though it wasn't actually touching Dean, Victor could also feel the man's insides sliding around inside his fists, what he could only guess were intestines twined between his fingers. He knew that if he made it out of this – and at this point, he was thinking that was a pretty big if – this would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And then, suddenly, he lost his grip.

It was just a little blip. A second there, where Victor _knew_ he'd had control. It was excruciating and not long enough to do anything, but he knew it had happened. It felt like breaking the surface of the water after trying to hold your breath for a long time. He'd never appreciated the feeling of being present in his own body before – why would he? But the sensation was unmistakable now.

It was gone as quickly as it came, though, and The Thing didn't even seem to have noticed it. So as much as Victor was inclined to cling to any hope at all, he had to conclude that it didn't mean anything.

And then it happened again.

The pain was even worse that time, but Victor tried with all his might to grab hold of the control and keep it. There was nothing to grasp, though. It was there and gone and he didn't know how or why. But he resolved to be ready when it happened again.

Through the window just to Dean's right, Victor saw lightning strike the corn field outside. The boom it brought shook what little glass remained in the window panes.

And then, The Thing lost its grip again – this time literally.

Suddenly, Victor was on the floor, and Sam Winchester was on top of him, muttering to himself like a crazy man. He looked the part, too – eyes wild and desperate, face pale and streaked with dust and blood. But it was clear he was fighting for all he was worth. He had Victor pinned to the ground, and he apparently still had the charm or whatever it was, because The Thing didn't just mind-throw him into a wall. Instead, it squirmed and bucked beneath Sam, but didn't manage to throw him off.

With his torso across Victor's shoulders, Sam reached his bound hands up to Victor's face, ignoring Victor's scratching and pulling hands. Victor felt something warm and wet smearing across his forehead. The Thing kept thrashing Victor's head back and forth, making whatever it was Sam was doing hard, because he couldn't spare a hand to hold it still.

And then it stopped. The Thing went absolutely still and stared straight up at Sam. Something had changed, and Victor had no idea what, but he knew it was bad bad bad, because he could feel that tingling feeling building up in his shoulder blades again, only worse than ever.

And then the ripping started.

It was like those blips he'd felt earlier, before Sam attacked, only Victor didn't know why he'd ever thought it was a good thing, because it hurt like nothing he'd ever known. Agonizing, like he imagined sinew being pulled from bone felt. And he might have had more control of his body just then, but it didn't matter because no way he'd ever be able to use it – remembering how to blink took more brainpower than he had to spare for thinking about something other than pain just now.

He could feel it, the ripping, pulling slowly up through his body and out his mouth. It'd started at his feet and then gone up his legs, past his groin and through his stomach.

It was about at his lungs when it stopped abruptly, and whatever had been ripping its way out slammed back in.

Victor didn't know how Sam could feel it, too, but that seemed to be the effect he was going for, because as soon as it happened, he let his hand fall away from Victor's face and stopped fighting all together.

He didn't stop whispering to himself, though, and now that Victor thought about it, the words sounded familiar. Foreign, but not something he was hearing for the first time.

Then it came to him.

'They're from that dream,' he thought. The one from earlier, with the men and the kid. That's why The Thing had suddenly stopped fighting Sam a moment ago. That's what The Thing meant earlier, when it had said what happened in the dream wouldn't really happen, that it would be around eons. The Thing was _in_ that kid in the dream. And whatever the words meant, they'd hurt it. Killed it, even, Victor would guess based on the way things had been going when they'd left the dream.

'I'm going to die,' he realized, remembering the little boy's screams.

He'd barely had time to think it when the pain started again, like the last time, but different. The rip had hurt last time, but it had hurt quickly, like pulling a Band-Aid off fast – there had just been a lot of Band-Aid to pull off. This time, the Band-Aid seemed to be holding on, fighting against being pulled off.

He screamed. Or maybe it was The Thing using Victor's voice to scream. Victor couldn't tell.

OOO

Note: OK, I'm really, really sorry it's taken so long. And that you've waited so long for such a short chapter. This was going to be the big climax chapter, but Mazza convinced me to break it into two parts. So the next part will be the big climax chapter. And then probably only one chapter after that. Maybe two, if the ends prove difficult to wrap up. But I promise, we're almost to the end. Stick with me just a bit longer.

And I know I said I'd stop making excuses about how long I was taking, but I had a good excuse this time. Yesterday was my first day off since Aug. 6! And I tried to work on this at night, but it was a difficult chapter to get down logistically, and I needed a bigger block of time than that to get it right. I'm still not sure it's coming across quite right, so let me know if any parts trip you up, or if you have any suggestions.

And God bless the long-suffering Mazza, because this might have never gotten done without her.


	13. Chapter 13

Note: Y'all, this chapter was just about the end of me. Gah. But, again, Mazza was patient, but strict, and I think the story is the better for it.

Now. Stick with me just a little longer. This one and one more, and we're done. I hope you like!

Chapter 13

Somehow, Sam hadn't been expecting Henrikson's screams.

He'd fallen limply back to the floor, trying to concentrate on making sure the words of the chant didn't get tangled up in the big gulps of air he was trying so hard to pull in – as if he'd done something more strenuous than finger paint on a man's forehead. But between crawling the few steps to Henrikson, knocking him over and holding him down, Sam had spent every last drop of adrenaline he might have even imagined having. The world had narrowed to that chant and the air he needed to keep it coming.

But the scream somehow managed to leak in around the edges.

It was horrible, hoarse and jagged and with all the desperation of the damned souls in Hell behind it. An audible version of Holy Water hitting demon skin. Something wretched and filthy coming into contact with the light.

Exactly what you'd expect of a demon in its death throes.

And that was all fine and dandy as far as Sam was concerned. Except. Except for all that, it was still a human voice. Somewhere buried deep inside, there was a man who was going to die. Sam told himself that this was worth it, one life was worth all the dreams Sam'd had that day not coming true. But there was a niggling doubt that had to do with the fact that the only times Sam had ever heard that voice without the demon behind it, it had been calling him and his brother murderers. He thought of the man he'd seen on TV, the way he'd looked America right in the eye and told them that Sam and Dean were killers, and wondered if he wouldn't be glad to see him dead.

And then he wondered what it meant if the answer to that question was yes. It smacked of Greek tragedy, the kind where the gods were just toying with the lives of mortals. Ever since Dean had told Sam what John had said, Sam had believed killing the demon was the only way to save his soul. But what if killing the demon – and with it Victor Henrikson – was the thing that finally damned him?

At that thought, his words stumbled to a stop, and by the time he'd decided he couldn't let the future he'd seen come true, regardless of the cost to his soul, it was too late.

OOO

'_You gotta' watch out,'_ Victor irrationally recalled the fat old pastor bellowing from the pulpit of the little white church his Meemaw went to._ 'You gotta' be _vigilant_. The Devil's out there. Out there prowlin' 'round, just like a lion – just a-waitin' for you to let down your guard and give him a foothold.'_

'_Amen,'_ the congregation had chorused.

The Thing had found its foothold. The pain hadn't stopped, but Sam had paused, and The Thing had gained the upper hand. It stopped screaming – or maybe just found the strength to shut Victor up again – and rolled onto its hands and knees. The peels of thunder had coalesced into one continuous rumble, and the air sizzled with electricity. There was a hiss outside that Victor thought might be fire in the cornfield. Two more loud lightning bolts struck close by.

"S-Sam?" Dean croaked from somewhere near the window. Victor's head turned, and he could see the man lying in a heap against the wall, clutching his abdomen, but focused on something behind Victor.

Another turn revealed Sam, sprawled in the middle of the room, eyes mere slits and lips moving along with whispers and wheezes that Victor could only just make out. The words were rushed and constant – Sam kept the steady stream up on the inhales as well as the ex – and Victor imagined he could feel the blood in his veins ebbing and flowing in time to it.

With a trembling hand, The Thing reached up to Victor's forehead to wipe at the bloody tattoo Sam had drawn there. The instant it touched the mark, however, Victor's fingertips began to tingle, and in a fraction of a second, his whole arm felt like it was on fire. The Thing lowered it and stared at Victor's fingers. Victor felt its rage boiling up within him, and lightning hit the roof with a bang.

The Thing roared and staggered to Victor's feet. It pitched forward the few steps to Sam, where it stumbled to Victor's knees and took the collar of Sam's shirt in shaking hands. Sam struggled feebly, but gravity was on The Thing's side – even weakened by Sam's chant, it was able to pull Sam up more than enough to make it hurt when his head slammed back into the old pine floor.

Sam's words began to slur, and Victor felt the change beneath his skin. He honestly didn't know what he was hoping for at this point.

He watched as his hands drove Sam's head into the floor boards once more, then pulled back for a punch that hit with a spurt of blood at Sam's mouth. The chant stopped altogether as Sam spat, and the punch The Thing threw in the meantime seemed stronger for its absence.

While Sam reeled silently, The Thing stood, more steadily than last time. Looking down at the kid, it drew Victor's foot back, and Victor was reminded of the scene it had showed him earlier that day, the crunch of Sam's ribs beneath his wing tips. He thought perhaps The Thing was selling itself short in the prophecy department.

The Thing sent Victor's foot sailing toward Sam's chest, and Victor braced himself mentally, not at all certain Sam would be able to withstand much more and keep chanting. Before the blow came, though, Dean Winchester was on top of him.

His eyes were glassy, blood had spilled over his chin and down his chest, and his grip on Victor's shoulders was less than firm. Victor had no illusions that the man would be able to hold it down for long. And sure enough, a second later Dean was flying through the air. Not as far as Victor had seen The Thing throw earlier in the day, but far enough that he didn't think he could count on Dean for more help.

Victor began to wonder if he might live through this after all, and found that he wasn't sure that was the preferable outcome.

A hot flare of pain raced up his spine and brought with it an incongruous surge of hope: Sam had used the brief reprieve to start the chant back up. Victor couldn't hold back a scream, but it was drowned out by several more cracks of lightning striking the roof overhead. He thought for sure the end must be near, and the idea brought relief.

He didn't want to die. Not even a little. But this Thing was bad, and if the stock it seemed to be putting in Sam Winchester's dreams was justified, then Victor had to concede that it was worth just about anything he could give to stop it.

Victor had been in the FBI for seven years. He'd missed the Oklahoma City bombing altogether, and he'd been too green to be assigned to one of the September 11th investigations. But like everyone else, he'd seen the photos and video footage, and at work he was surrounded by people who'd experienced the destruction up close. He knew if any one of them had been given a choice of sacrificing their own lives in exchange for preventing what had happened on those days, they'd do it without a second thought.

What Sam had dreamed was all that and maybe even worse. Victor could still smell the burning flesh of the children at the Thanksgiving Day parade. How could he but do anything and everything to prevent it?

He couldn't.

That decided, Victor steeled himself. He didn't know what, if anything, he could do from the inside. But he planned to try.

The Thing was turning Victor over onto his stomach. No longer able to make it to Victor's hands and knees, it pulled him forward on his belly an inch at a time. Each iteration of Sam's chant increased the intensity of the burn Victor felt throbbing up from every extremity, but he hadn't fallen far, and it didn't take too long for The Thing to reach the kid.

The ceiling of the old house was on fire by this point, wood dried by a century of suns yielding eagerly to the blaze. The flames gave the scene a surreal glow as Victor's hand moved to curl around Sam's neck.

Victor felt Sam's words rumbling beneath his hand for a moment before The Thing started to squeeze and the whispers turned to wheezes. Sam's eyes flew open, panic briefly clearing them of lethargy. He tried to twist out of Victor's grasp, but The Thing held firm, and Sam's struggles didn't last long.

Sam began to fade, and Victor clawed desperately at the walls of his mind, trying to find a chink that would let him break through. But there was nothing. The Thing didn't even seem to notice what Victor was doing, and the longer Sam stayed silent, the stronger it got.

Except for the crackle of the fire overhead, the room was quiet and still. The Corn Kids had fled at some point, and Dean was lying still against the wall where he'd landed. There was no one left, and even if Victor could give voice to the screams inside his head, there was no one but The Thing to hear him.

That didn't stop him from screaming inside his head, however, and The Thing must really have been feeling better, because it earned Victor a chuckle.

"Just you and me, Vicky-boy." It's voice echoed inside Victor's head and it suddenly occurred to Victor that it could _hear_ him. And if it could hear him …

Victor didn't bother to finish the thought, just took up Sam's chant where the kid had left off. He didn't know what it meant, but it wasn't anything difficult, and he'd certainly had it ground into his consciousness tonight.

Immediately the burn redoubled, and the tearing started again. It was even worse than the last time, but it was tempered with a thrill of victory. The only problem was The Thing still had his hand around Sam's neck, and Victor was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to chant and die at the same time. It was going to come down to whether Victor could focus long enough to loosen The Thing's grasp. Shudders were knocking their way up and down his arms, but it wasn't letting up.

Sam's lips took on a blue tinge, and Victor could guess the way things were going to go. Except that he wasn't going to let that happen, he couldn't. He focused all his mental energy on ignoring the pain, on thinking the words. All except for a tiny corner of his mind where he was praying – actually praying to _God_ for the first time in more than a decade – that it would work.

Just when he was beginning to think his prayers had gone unheard, just as the pain began to bleed through the mental dam he'd built, Victor felt a spasm in his hand, and his fingers unlocked.

For the longest fraction of a second, nothing happened, and Victor thought maybe it wasn't going to matter after all. Then Sam sucked in a frantic gasp of air and started coughing out the words again. Then Victor lost track of Sam altogether as the pain drowned out everything else.

The rip was creeping up through Victor's stomach again, and Victor screwed his eyes shut as phantom fingernails seemed to scrape against his ribs, raking trails through tendons and ligaments and muscles. He only registered that he had the power to shut his own eyes when became necessary to find the energy to wrench his mouth open to let whatever was ripping, out.

All the pain he had been feeling was now localized in his throat. It felt like vomiting knives, and as it left, he could almost feel it grabbing at his spine and clawing at his tongue. 'This is it,' Victor thought, and it occurred to him that he should have prepared some sort of last thought to think at this moment, even if he wouldn't have a chance for last words.

But then it was gone, and Victor wasn't.


	14. Chapter 14

It was the tickle in this throat that woke Dean

Note: I don't know how, after waiting what, six months? this can be anything but a disappointment. But here it is. Thank all of you so much, who sent pleas for a conclusion over the long wait. I don't think I would have purposefully abandoned it without them, but it really might have just slipped my mind.

Chapter 14

It was the tickle in this throat that woke Dean. Which – considering the heaps and loads of other aches and pains screaming for attention – seemed like the equivalent of being woken up by a knock on the door in the middle of a hurricane.

At least, that's what he thought until the tickle prompted a cough. At that point, he realized that tickles were the devil and not to be underestimated at any cost.

And _then_ he realized that, no, actually, tickles were minor imps. _Breathing_ was the devil. Because once he managed to stop coughing and draw the massive gulp of oxygen his brain was telling him he needed, the tickle immediately became the burn of a thousand fire ants and brought on more of the masochistic coughing.

It was while he was rolling onto his side, trying to spare his abdominal muscles some of the torture the throat demon was trying to inflict, that he opened his streaming eyes for his first time. And _that's_ when he realized throat demons and breathing devils were the least of his problems.

The ceiling was a roiling mass of black smoke.

For a second Dean could only wonder at how many demons it must take to make that big a cloud. That Bible story crossed his mind, the one with the man possessed by multiple demons, and he went stiff with dread. _'My name is Legion,'_ his memory helpfully supplied, _'for we are many.'_

Then he connected the smoke with the tickle in his throat and didn't know whether to be relieved or not.

The house was on fire. The house was on _fire_. He … he had to … he …

Where was Sam?

At that thought, the events that preceded his coming to be crumpled on the floor of a burning building came flooding back, and tickle or no, he bolted upright.

Henrikson was crouching over an unmoving Sam.

"Hey!" Dean croaked. "Get away from him!"

It was ridiculous, because 1.) Dean only sounded threatening if you were afraid of bullfrogs, 2.) Like the demon was just going to say, 'oh, OK,' even if Dean was up to his usual threatening- ness quotient and 3.) Given the expected outcome, you'd think Dean would have some plan for backing the demand up, right? But did he? No. He'd been out of plans for what seemed like hours now.

Which made it all the more surprising when it worked.

Henrikson backed away from Sam, hands up and placating. "It's … gone," he said. "That … thing that was inside of me … It's gone."

It took Dean a second and two coughing fits to get his head around that, and when he did he still had trouble with it. Because, like he was just going to believe that, right? Like Sam had suddenly come up with a way to get rid of the demon while Dean was unconscious. But then again, why would the demon even bother lying to him at this point? Why not just fling him across the room again? He frowned, which hurt, which made him frown harder and hurt more. And then he coughed again for good measure.

"Christo?" he asked, admittedly halfheartedly. In part because his voice wasn't up to asking anything wholeheartedly, and in part because he wasn't convinced there was much of a point, anyway. 'Cause if holy water didn't work on the yellow-eyed demon, he didn't have any reason to think Christo would bring so much as a flinch. Henrikson just stared back at him, eyebrows communicating his uncertainty as to what his response was supposed to be.

"How am I suppo—" Dean started, only to be interrupted by a chunk of the ceiling falling in the corner behind him. He scrabbled away from the shower of sparks it created, then turned back to Henrikson, chest heaving and eyes wide.

"Can we finish this conversation after we're outside?" Henrikson yelled over another crash down the hall.

Demon or not, Dean couldn't see any faults in that plan. Except …

"Is he alive?" he rasped, nodding toward Sam. He held his breath for a reason that had nothing at all to do with the pain.

Henrikson looked back at Sam, then turned to Dean again. "Yeah," he called. "Or, he was a second ago. But if you want him to stay that way, we've got to get out of here."

Relief left him weak, and Dean let himself fall back to the floor for a moment, nodding so that Henrikson would know he wasn't disagreeing. He wheezed and panted, trying to get enough air to force his body up. Or to keep from passing out again, for that matter. It hurt to breathe, it hurt not to breathe, it just plain hurt, period. But then, if the choice was breathing and hurting or not breathing and still hurting, he guessed that made the choice easy enough.

With a wheezing groan that scraped at his throat, he rolled himself over and pushed himself up to his knees. When he got there, he was surprised and irritated to find a hand on his shoulder offering help.

"No," he coughed, trying to wave Henrikson away. "Get Sam out. I'll follow."

"I will," Henrikson said. "But you first."

Dean shook his head as he stumbled to his feet. "Naw," he insisted. "Just go – I'm fine." The way he was clutching at Henrikson to stay upright may have robbed the statement of some credibility, but that didn't stop Dean from trying to push the man back toward Sam.

"Clearly," Henrikson replied. He didn't let Dean shake him off.

"Dude," Dean protested, trying to dig in his heels without tripping over his own feet. Which prompted another coughing fit. When it was over, Henrikson had stopped the forward progress in favor of turning to face his unwilling rescue-ee.

"Listen," Henrikson began, "unless you want me to just chuck your brother out the window, then let me help you out first. If you're on the outside, I'll be able to hand him out to you."

When Dean didn't immediately agree, Henrikson rolled his eyes and started pulling again.

"I'd be getting Sam out already if you would quit fighting me."

Well, when he put it that way … Dean allowed himself to be led to the window and steadied as he climbed out. The jolt at the end of the short drop set him coughing again, and by the time he got it under control, Henrikson had disappeared back into the thick smoke. Dean peered anxiously after him for a moment, but within seconds was forced to move back: A shower of sparks from above alerted him just in time to scramble out of the way of a flaming branch falling from the old tree.

Staring up at the blazing oak, Dean became aware of his surroundings for the first time since he'd climbed in the window. The air outside was just marginally better than it had been inside – all around the dirt yard surrounding the house, the cornfields were blazing.

"Oh shit," he said, and immediately doubled over with more coughing. The episode seemed to last forever, which made it all the more worrisome when he was able to breathe again and Henrikson still hadn't appeared at the window with Sam. Panic had come to stay hours ago, but Dean found that he had not yet reached its limits as he stared hard at the window, afraid to blink for fear of missing some sign that they were coming or needed help … Or worse, some sign that they weren't.

Having the demon riffle through his insides hardly compared to this agony of waiting. How could he have left Sam in there? It was a _fire_. Dean had spent his life pulling Sam out of fires. He wasn't sure he remembered ever leaving a burning building without Sam in tow.

What must have possessed him that he did so this time?

It was that last thought that spurred him to gather up the tatters of his strength one more time and head back toward the window. When Henrikson suddenly materialized in front of him, Sammy slung over a shoulder, Dean could have wept from the sudden release of tension.

If, you know, he did that sort of thing.

Instead, he rushed – as much as he was able – to pull Sam away from the recently possessed FBI agent and the burning building. He only made it a few faltering steps before falling backward, but even the pain of cushioning Sam's fall with his aching ribs couldn't diminish Dean's relief at having Sam once again out of the fire and safe in his arms.

He scooted a little farther, dragging Sammy with him, until they were about equal distances from the fires in the house and the fields. He was just about ready to breathe a provisional sigh of the relief when the sound of sirens began to filter in to the fire's roar.

Suddenly realizing that they had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, Dean began struggling to pull himself and Sam to their feet. But the coughing reached a new all-time high, and spots began to weave across his vision. He fell, exhausted, back to the ground, struggling to pull in a breath. Fixing on Sam's still profile, outlined in sharp relief by the glow of the fire surrounding them, he realized that there was nowhere to go, anyway.

He supposed, as the scene began to fade around him, that life in prison was probably an improvement on the future they'd been facing 30 minutes ago.

OOO

Grease was dribbling down Dean's chin and he didn't even care a little bit.

This was … just … the best double cheeseburger. Ever. And ever. Amen. God. Never in his wildest dreams had Dean believed a cheeseburger could taste so good.

He let his eyes roll up toward the ceiling (because for some reason staring heavenward always seemed to increase one's enjoyment of food), but on the way there, something else, or rather, someone else, just coming out of the diner's restroom, drew his gaze. He raised his eyebrows and for just a second forgot to chew.

She was … whew. Hot. Just … smokin'. Curves in allll the right places. Long, blond, beauty queen hair. Long, tan, beauty queen legs. Which – huh – he could see because she was wearing a string bikini. And heels. _High_ heels.

Dean's forehead scrunched up a little at that, because, do bikinis fall under the no-shirt-no-shoes deal? Not that he's gonna complain. Ever. And ever. Amen. And in fact, it seems no one else is going to, either. Actually, no one else seems to have noticed. Which made Dean a little sad, because if ever a girl deserved some noticed … Then again, her gaze never wavered from his as she walked by, smiling suggestively at him, so maybe he liked not sharing, anyway.

She moved past, but threw another smile back over her shoulder at him before walking through the door, and he smiled back. Then frowned, realizing that it was hardly bikini weather outside. The fog was so thick he couldn't really even see past the glass.

He turned to Sammy – who hadn't been sitting there across the table a second ago, Dean didn't think, but it's convenient that he was now, since Dean wanted to talk to him – and opened his mouth to ask if Sammy thought they should go after the girl. But he shut it again when he noticed Sammy giving him that look, that look he always got when he thought Dean was making a pig of himself. Which was totally not fair, because Dean wanted to go _help_ the girl. And also, she smiled at him first.

He opened his mouth again, feeling disgruntled, but Sam beat him to the chase, eyes rolling.

"I should have known," Sam said, sounding as disgusted with himself as with Dean. "But really, Dean. A bikini? In a diner? That's not even sanitary."

Dean scowled at Sam. Wasn't like he put her there.

"Of course you did," Sam said. And then Dean's jaw dropped, masticated Angus and all, because how long had Sam been able to read minds?

"I certainly didn't put her here," Sam continued. "In fact, that's the kind of thing I generally frown upon."

Yeah, and didn't Dean know it. Sam did a _lot_ of frowning at that kind of thing. He spent almost as much time frowning at it as Dean did smiling at it. But Dean wasn't looking for a fight, so he just wiped the grease off his chin, threw his napkin on the table and started the car.

"Uh uh uh," Sam tsked from the passenger seat. "You're not getting away that easily. We need to talk."

Dean shot him an irritated look, because disgruntled didn't seem to be having the desired effect just now.

"I know. You don't _like_ to talk. But this is important."

Dean pulled out of the parking lot. Or, at least, he thought he did. Hard to tell with all the fog. He hoped he didn't hit the bikini girl.

"Now. I know that, in general, you're not much for my commandments. Of the 10, I can think of, what? two? _maybe_? that you don't break on pretty much a weekly – if not daily – basis."

Dean hated to take his eyes off he road, what with the fog, but he couldn't help it. Since when did Sammy have his own commandments? And why in hell should Dean follow them? Little brothers didn't make the rules.

So he spared a split second to look over at his brother, and then had to look again. Sammy was wearing a long white robe, and his hair was back to brown and grown out to his shoulders.

Dean hit the breaks. The stop was a little rough, but the mattress was surprisingly soft for the kind of motels they frequented. So when he bounced a little, it didn't hurt at all.

"But I'm going to ask you to follow this one for me when you wake up," Sammy said from the other side of the nightstand. Where he was under the covers of the opposite bed. "Just one, OK? And it's not one of the hard ones. You don't even have to get rid of the bikini girl."

Dean was getting tired, so he just shrugged and nodded.

"Number nine," Sam said, enunciating carefully. And it was a good thing, because Dean was getting really sleepy. "Number _nine_."

"Nine dammit!"

Dean woke up with a start.

"A nine. Really. Come on, Alfie. You slammed your pinkie finger in a car door – "

"_They_ slammed it in the door!"

" – It's not even fractured, much less broken. You don't need morphine. You don't even need a Band-Aid. It doesn't rate a nine on the pain scale."

"Says you, bitch."

"Fine. You know what? I'm calling Deputy Lynch. There's no reason you can't be taken on to booking."

Footsteps faded off into the distance as Dean slowly opened his eyes. A water-stained, drop-tile ceiling stared back at him. He moved to rub a fist over his eyes but came up short. A jerk only produced a clanking. He frowned and tried out lifting his head to take a look. It was slow going until his wrists came into view.

Handcuffs.

That was enough to jerk him upright.

Any trace of drowsiness was gone, pain and alarm taking its place. But all he could do was stare stupidly, trying to assign some meaning to the sight. Handcuffs? Attached to … a metal rail. On a … hospital bed?

He frowned at that and shifted his gaze to his other hand.

IV. And now that he was paying attention, oxygen mask, also.

Yup. No doubt about it, this was a hospital bed. He was in a hospital bed. No, scratch that. He was _handcuffed_ to a hospital bed.

Which, perhaps surprisingly, was a new experience. He'd been in handcuffs, and he'd been in hospitals, but never before at the same time. Which, he guessed, meant he'd hit a new all-time low.

Awesome.

He was still contemplating that when a nurse walked in, uniformed officer in tow. He shrank back into the bed, but they didn't even spare him a glance. His roommate, on the other hand, got some very personalized attention.

"No no NO," the man – the one who had woken him, Dean now realized – yelled, pitch and volume increasing with each syllable. "You can't take me! Nah, man! I know my rights! I know my rights! I gotta right to medical attention! I gotta right to pain killers! You broke my finger! I gotta right to pain killers. I'm gonna sue your ass! Alla y'all's asses!"

As the man's cries disappeared down the hallway, the nurse leaned back against the door jam and sighed, looking spent and sad. Dean shifted, and the rattle of the cuffs drew her attention. When their eyes met, Dean offered a sympathetic half smile, but it died on his lips. The nurse's face immediately turned hard, disgust and revulsion replacing weariness. She pushed herself away from the doorway and hurried out of the room.

Leaving Dean to sit and put together the pieces.

He remembered … handcuffs. And jail. And getting out.

And he remembered the files that accused him of killing Jess and much more.

And he remembered cornfields and special children and demon-possedFBIagentsandpainandfire.

And. Sam. Not. Moving.

"Hey!" he called after the nurse, who was now close enough to long gone that she could legitimately pretend not to hear his pitiful rusted out voice. "Hey, come back here! What happened? Where's my brother? Hey!"

The yells got him nothing but stream of coughs he could feel in his stomach, and he twisted around for the call button, gasping at the reaction that got from whatever was going on with his insides.

The nurse came hurrying back in looking less than sympathetic.

"Mr. Winchester," she snapped, "you need to stay still. You'll pull your stitches."

Dean grimaced all the more at her words. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been called by his real name in a hospital.

"I just," he rasped, and then had to pause and try to catch his breath.

"And your throat is going to be sore for awhile, so you shouldn't talk either." She raised her voice to be heard over Dean's hacking. The tone stayed flat, though, indicating that, while she was paid to give out this advice, really, she couldn't care less whether he chose to follow it. She hurried through her checks of Dean's various monitors without looking directly at him.

By the time Dean had his voice back, she was turning to leave again.

"Wait," he managed to grind out. She stopped, back stiff, but didn't turn around.

"I just want to know where my brother is. Sam. Sam Winchester. Is he OK?"

She stood still for a second, and Dean could practically see the waves of tension running up and down her spine. Then she turned her head just enough that he could see her profile and make out the muscles flexing in her jaw.

"You'll have to ask somebody who gives a damn," she bit out. "I'll let Agent West know you're awake."

Dean sank gingerly back in the bed, stunned. He couldn't remember ever hearing such … loathing directed at him. And that nurse, she didn't even know him, had no reason to hate him. She treated that drug addict who called her a bitch with more concern.

As Dean thought about it, the shock receded in the face of anger. What right did she have? She had no idea what he and Sam had …

Oh. Right. Except she kinda did. Or probably thought she did, anyway. In all the … excitement … Dean had kind of forgotten about the America's Most Wanted episode and the six point two three million people Sam said had been watching it. Clearly Nurse Karen was one of them. And probably thinking he had some nerve worrying about his partner in crime after all the people he'd "murdered."

He was still contemplating that thought when a tall, thin man in a neat gray suit appeared at the door.

"May I come in?"

Dean recognized him immediately. Or rather, not him personally, but his type. He was unquestionably a Fed.

And maybe another day, that would have worried Dean, but just then he couldn't quite work up the energy. He didn't have the energy to engineer some miraculous escape; he didn't have the energy to tell this guy to piss off. He didn't even have the energy to tell him no.

Dean shrugged his response, to the best of his ability. The man ambled in and pulled a metal folding chair up to Dean's bed. He sat down and fixed Dean with a professionally blank stare. Dean sighed and dropped his gaze. He wasn't feeling up to posturing.

"Your brother's going to be OK."

Dean cautiously raised his head, somewhat worried that sudden movement would remind the man who he was talking to and cause him to stop.

"We helicoptered you both down to Amarillo – it had the nearest neurological unit, and we wanted to concentrate all our resources in one place."

"What?" Dean wheezed, head suddenly spinning – "OK" and "neurological unit" were, in his understanding, mutually exclusive.

"You probably could have stayed in Guymon. He had a bad case of smoke inhalation, like you. Some bruising and such – like you. Minor internal bleeding, like you. Minor burns, like you – although some of his were electrical. And a concussion and some fairly serious swelling around his throat, which you didn't have.

"But the main thing was some unusual brain activity the doctors were picking up, which Guymon Memorial just isn't equipped to handle. Reports are that it's unusual, but doesn't seem to be anything to worry about. Last I heard, he hadn't woken up yet. But then, neither had you until about 15 minutes ago."

Burns? Bruises? Bleeding? Brain activity? Breathing wasn't getting any easier for Dean.

The Fed went on, though there may have been a hint of sympathy in the turn of his mouth.

"Now, I'm going to need to ask you some questions, Dean."

Dean barely registered the statement. "I've gotta get out of here," he said, pulling ineffectually at the handcuffs. "I've got to get to Sam."

The agent sighed. "You can't leave Dean. You're in federal custody. I'm Assistant Director Dave West. There're two agents outside that door, and more at the entrance to the ward. Same on the neurology ward. And even if you were free to leave, you're not fit to. So. You're gonna have to take my word that Sam's OK. And since you're stuck here anyway, we might as well talk."

Dean didn't see much point in arguing with the man, but he didn't make any promises, either. West frowned, but evidently decided to take the lack of response as compliance. He looked down at his hands in his lap and seemed to steel himself for something, then looked Dean unflinchingly in the eye.

"How long has Victor Henrikson been working with you and Sam?"

Which totally wasn't what Dean had been expecting. His mouth fell open, possibly unattractively. He almost blurted out a raspy denial, but stopped himself.

It was tempting. Henrikson had been a pain in Dean's ass for almost a year now. Why not let him see how it felt to be wrongly accused?

But something in Dean's gut shrank away from the idea. Do unto others and all that crap, maybe. Plus, whatever trouble the man had caused in the past, he'd just pulled Sam from a burning building, and Dean tended to take that kind of seriously.

"He wasn't," he said, finally. And it came out more clearly than anything he'd said since waking.

West looked at him hard for a moment, but nodded. He didn't seem as relieved by the news as Dean had expected, however.

"Did he," West started, then had to pause and collect his courage again. "Did he kidnap your brother from the Logan County Sheriff's Department?"

The truth was a little trickier on this one. If Dean said yes, which was technically correct, then he was back to accusing an innocent man of a crime he had no control over. And if he said no, then what? How would he explain what happened?

'Course, he could go with the real truth. What did he have to lose? Maybe he'd even be able to swing an insanity plea.

He finally settled on, "Not exactly."

OOO

Victor looked up as the door to his interrogation room opened, and Dave West walked in.

"I thought you might show up," he said, trying to ignore the irony in the echo from – had it really only been the day before? The setting wasn't even so different, though no one had felt the need to bolt the chairs down on Victor's behalf.

Dave, of course, didn't recognize the reference. He just sat down across from Victor and fixed him with a long look, what Victor liked to call his 'come to Jesus stare.' It had worked on many a reluctant confessor, but Victor knew all Dave's tricks.

"How are the Winchesters?" Victor asked, rather than burst into the explanation Dave was asking for.

Dave, however, seemed unsurprised. He raised his eyebrows in challenge. "You mean, 'the monsters'?" he asked. "The 'modern-day Frank and Jesse James'? I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, but they're recovering. Doctors say they'll be fine – perfectly fit for a long life of draining the American tax payers of 65 a day for good food and comfortable lodging. Or some close approximation, anyway."

Victor took up an intense study of grotesquely stained floor showing between his knees. He squared the heels of his feet each in their own square-foot concrete tile. His toes fell well past the opposite edge.

He was … relieved to hear the Winchesters were OK, but he still hadn't figured out what came next, how he dealt with the knowledge that they were innocent. He suspected his word on the matter wasn't going to be worth much.

"Did you kidnap that boy, Vic?" Dave whispered.

Victor straightened so that he could look at his boss head on. "No," he said as steadily as he could manage.

"This is off the record," Dave said. "Just between you and me. I want to help you, man, but I have to know the truth. I know how it can get, how it can be so hard to look at them, knowing what they've done. You put a lot of work in on this. I'd … understand if you just snapped."

"That's not what happened," Victor insisted.

"OK. Did you help him escape? Think he'd lead you to some … evidence you needed? Did he promise to show you something?"

"No," Victor wearily intoned.

"Then what? Give me another option here. I saw the video tape, man. I know you left the department with Sam Winchester in tow."

Victor went back to staring at his feet. The over-achieving air conditioning system was blowing right onto the back of his neck, and he couldn't quite suppress a small shiver.

"Were you possessed by a demon?"

Victor surely injured his neck, his head shot up so fast.

"I had an interesting talk with Dean Winchester before I came over here," Dave said softly. "Off the record, man. Tell me what happened."

OOO

Dean was pulled out of sleep by something literally pulling on his wrist. He'd been in the hospital for two days now, and though his throat was feeling something like better, his gut was a roiling mess of nerves.

He still hadn't seen Sam and had only been able to get perfunctory reports on him. He was apparently awake, though still on the neurology unit, which worried Dean. But without knowing whether Sam was up for a great escape, Dean didn't want to make his move. Not that he'd figured out just yet what move he would make if he could, anyway.

So clearly, he'd had a lot on his mind. That was his excuse for the somewhat girly yelp he made when he opened his eyes to find Victor Henrikson standing over him.

For a second, Dean was back in that farmhouse, and the agent's eyes were glowing yellow. Dean's breathing sped up, and he began wheezing through the damage in his throat as he scrambled away from the man, only to be brought up short by the cuffs.

Which also brought him back to reality, where he was still wheezing, but at least remembered that the Demon was gone.

The Demon was _gone_. Gone.

He took a deep breath and tried to let that thought calm him down. When he had it under control, Dean looked back up. Henrikson had stepped back from the bed and was watching Dean with that carefully blank stare that he had. And it had fooled Dean in their brief previous meeting and on TV. But not now. Now he'd seen that face truly devoid of all human feeling, and this? Was brimming with emotion in comparison.

Emotions like guilt, for instance. And Dean knew that he should say something like how it wasn't the man's fault. He even opened his mouth to do so, but nothing came out. He wasn't quite ready to forgive just yet, because maybe the demon thing wasn't the agent's fault, but the America's Most Wanted Thing? Totally was.

Apparently deciding that Dean was done freaking out, Henrikson moved back to the side of the bed and took Dean by the wrist, reminding Dean of what had woken him to begin with. A second later, the handcuffs fell away, and Henrikson stepped away again.

"Wha –?" Dean rasped, not even sure how to finish the sentence.

Henrikson's mouth opened, and naked emotion tripped across his face before he closed up again, deciding against whatever he had been going to say. When he opened his mouth again, his face was back to the human version of blank. "You're free to go," he said. "Doctor's released you."

And then he turned and walked out.

Dean stared after him, mouth hanging open, for a full 30 seconds. He thought about calling after the man and demanding an explanation, but only for a moment. After that, he came to his senses.

"I know a gift horse when I see one," he muttered to the empty room, and scrambled out of the bed.

Deciding on his next course of action was a no brainer.

Find Sam.

He took a moment to pilfer a pair of blood-stained scrubs from the nearest biohazardous waste basket, cringing a bit, but still thankful that the janitors were apparently a bit more lax about emptying the trash here than they might have been on other wards. Then he was poking his head around the corner and breathing a sigh of perplexed relief at the lack of guards. He hurried down the hall and out into the bustle of the regular hospital.

He thought about asking someone for Sam's room number, but decided that would draw an unnecessary amount of attention to him and take too long, besides. Hospitals were usually good about signage.

Sure enough, a breadcrumb trail of shiny signs led him to a bank of elevators with a helpful, color-coded list of what sort of patients you might expect to find on any given floor.

Unfortunately, standing next to it was Victor Henrikson.

The doors opened, and Henrikson stepped on. Dean thought about waiting for the next one, but … well, it just seemed rude. Besides, refusing to ride in an elevator with him might suddenly alert the agent to the mistake he'd made.

So Dean stepped on to the elevator, carefully averting his eyes. Without raising them above shoulder level, he reached out to punch the button for the fifth floor. But it was already lit.

Dean's gaze darted up to Henrikson's face, but it was unreadable. It didn't necessarily mean anything, Dean told himself. The guy could have any number of reasons to visit the floor that housed neurology and … Dean thought for a second, trying to remember what the director had said. Oh right. Maternity. But since Dean couldn't really imagine Henrikson having a wife, much less one who happened to be stashed in a Texas baby factory, he was forced to conclude that he and Henrikson were heading for the same destination.

Dean was still trying to decide what to do about that when the elevator pinged and the doors peeled back. Henrikson took advantage of Dean's momentary indecision and stepped out in front of him.

Dean followed, trying to convince himself there was no reason to panic. The Demon was gone, so his fear that the agent was on his way to steal Sammy back was unfounded. And if he let Dean go, why would he be on his way to haul Sam off?

Unless … He was, after all, with the government. And he knew about Sam's … powers. Dean had seen enough X-File episodes to build a plausible scenario around that. What if the government wanted to lock Sam away and, like, experiment on him?

Or … The Demon _was_ dead, wasn't it? Had Dean made sure? He tried to remember the details of what happened after he woke up in the burning farm house, but everything was fuzzy.

Dean picked his pace up until he was entering a hospital room four doors down from the elevator right on Henrikson's heels. He wasn't exactly relieved to find Sam sitting up in bed looking exhausted and uncomfortable, but, overall, OK.

Well, actually he was. Even if he was about to be kidnapped by a demon – or possibly the government – overall OK was better than not.

Without a word of explanation, Henrikson marched to a befuddled Sam's bedside and reached for his wrist.

"Hey!" Dean … tried to bark. It came out as more of a croak, but the jerk he gave the agent's arm communicated his intent just as well, anyway. The agent didn't say anything, just held up his arms in submission and gave him that same look Dean had seen earlier. Dean looked from him to Sam, who, judging by the fear on his face, was working through the same reaction Dean had had to the man.

Dean shoved the man back a little farther, then considered the situation. There was, after all, one other option, besides the Demon kidnapping and government plot. Henrikson could be actually coming to free Sam as he had Dean.

Eyeing the key the agent was holding, Dean held out a hand. Henrikson hesitantly gave it to him, moving slowly. Dean decided to take it as an effort not to spoke him, rather than a reluctance to give him the key.

Without taking his eyes off the man, Dean reached down and fumbled with Sam's cuffs until he got them open. Then he carefully handed the key back.

Henrikson gave a terse nod and turned to leave.

Sam, however, couldn't leave well enough alone.

"Wait," he called to the agent's retreating back. "What's going on?

Just in case the man needed prompting on the correct answer, Dean helpfully chimed in. "He's free to leave, too, right?"

Henrikson turned and surveyed them both without expression. "No," he started, and Dean immediately squared his shoulders, tensing for a fight. "His doctor hasn't released him yet."

Oh. Well. He didn't feel silly.

The agent turned again to leave, but Sam – who apparently had no idea what a gift horse looked like – stopped him again.

"But the FBI doesn't want me to, uh, stick around?"

Dean was trying to figure out a subtle way to stomp on his brother's foot, but, seeing as Sam was lying down, settled for a swift pinch instead, earning him a distinctly unsubtle "Ow!" from Sam.

Henrikson didn't deign to notice. "Speaking on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we're hoping never to hear your names again."

Dean could feel Sam trying to make eye contact, but Dean was four-square against letting on that he thought this idea was anything but completely logical. So he chose instead to pinch Sam again.

"Ow! Dean, quit it!"

With a disdainfully quirked eyebrow, Henrikson once again made to leave. But Sam would have none of it.

"Wait!" he yelled.

Henrikson turned back once more, looking resigned to the fact that he was going to have to have this discussion. "Yes?" he asked.

Having been given what he apparently wanted, Sam now seemed unsure what to do with it. "So …" he began, hesitantly. "You're … letting wanted criminals go?"

This time he caught Dean's fingers with his non-IV-restrained hand just as Dean was going in for the pinch.

"Who said you were wanted?" Henrikson replied. "Thought I made it pretty clear that you're decidedly unwanted."

Even Dean couldn't let that go. "We're not on the wanted list anymore?" he clarified, wondering if he should get it in writing.

"Give the man a gold star," Henrikson drawled.

"How?" Sam demanded.

The cool, distant look Henrikson had been wearing like a mask fell away. He sighed heavily turned to stick his head out the door, checking he hall before he shut it and moved closer to Sam's bed. Then he looked Sam straight in the eyes. Dean felt a shiver squirm its way up his spine.

"Let's just say AD West and I would rather not get in the way of the hand of God."

OOO

In the silence that followed the statement, the room's AC unit clanked on, and one of Sam's IV bag's beeped its announcement that it was spent. This time, when Sam looked to Dean, he found his brother right there, meeting his gaze. They exchanged cautionary looks before Sam replied. These situations could be delicate – and they didn't want to be anyone's savior.

"Listen," Sam started, carefully. "We appreciate you not arresting us and all – we really didn't kill anyone. But you can't listen to anything that thing said while it was inside you. Demons lie."

Henrikson pursed his lips and eyed Sam thoughtfully. "Maybe," he allowed. "But it seems pretty clear to me that God's got his fingerprints all over this mess."

Sam bit down on a sudden, unexpected surge of rage at the man's careless proclamation. How could he say that after … everything? Three days ago, Sam had been clinging against all reason to the idea that _some_one_ some_where was looking out for him. He had _wanted_ to believe that.

But after being hunted – _and caught_ – by both the good guys and the bad, he was ready to admit that he'd been duped. The only one looking out for Sam was Dean.

Of course, the word "only" was misleading, since it turned out Dean was enough. But why should God get all the credit when Dean did all the work? Dean tracked him down through an ocean of corn, fought a demon barehanded and faced down an army of psychics. If God was going to get anything, it should be the blame for getting Sam into trouble to begin with. Because if there was one thing the Demon said that Sam was willing to give credence to, it was the claim that God had ruined his life.

"Yeah, well," Sam finally mumbled. "Maybe God should be the one on your wanted list, then."

Henrikson looked genuinely surprised. "Seriously? _You've_ lost faith? After all that? Man, if that ain't irony …" He let out a low whistle.

Sam scowled. "Were we even at the same farmhouse?" he sniped.

"Hey," Henrikson said, "I'm not saying it was a weekend in Disneyland. But I figure the end justifies a whole hell of a lot, considering what the end could have been. If you hadn't been the one who could see the future, you who knew about demons and had been raised exorcising them, there would have been no one to stop that future from coming true."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, aware that Dean, who had been observing the conversation uneasily, was now looking at him in confusion. He thought back to that last vision and couldn't help but flinch at the memory of the desolation he'd seen. He was glad they'd prevented it, whatever the means. But that didn't mean he was ready to call it divine intervention. Not after everything they'd been through.

"I probably would have bought that a year ago," Sam finally said. "Before we were being hunted by demons _and_ the FBI _and_ other hunters. All at once. Now I'm tired. And it seems like if God was such a fan of ours, he'd cut us a little slack."

Henrikson didn't look deterred. "Romans 8:28," he said, with a shrug.

It took Sam a moment, but he called the verse up in his memory.

"And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose?" he recited. Henrikson just smirked back at him, and Sam felt his anger growing. "Our entire family was killed by this thing, and that's your explanation?"

Henrikson dropped the smirk, but he didn't back down.

"Think about it," he said. "The demon is there and after you and all those other kids. Free will and all dictates that God doesn't change that. But he made sure that one of you had the power to stop it. And rather than just leave you to die in that fire? He got me involved, ensuring that the FBI would track down that rental car of mine and show up just when we needed a rescue – conveniently not a moment too soon, holding them off by jamming the signal with the electrical storms. Otherwise, a bunch of innocent officers might have gotten fricasseed, which wouldn't have done us shit's worth of good.

"And speaking of the electrical storms, I found out about them through your buddy, Gordon Walker. I assume that's the "other hunters" you were talking about? If he hadn't told me about the weather patterns, I would still have found you – but my understanding is that your brother wouldn't have. You and I might still be out there."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, unable to think of a reply. Henrikson didn't let that bother him.

"Face it, kids," he said. "You're doing God's work."

And with one last quirk of his eyebrows, the agent turned around and walked out of the door.

The End.

More Notes: There! Done! You can take me off the naughty list now.

Again, I really can't properly express how much I have loved getting your reviews. And I hope you'll let me know – good or bad – how you liked the ending. Feel free to make suggestions – I'm not above fiddling with it, still.

And speaking of changing a story after the fact, I've been telling myself for months now that if I would just buckle down and finish this, I'd start an LJ and use it as an excuse to do that revision of Contact that I've been planning. So if you have any feedback on which parts of that need to be sliced and diced, now's the time.

And I couldn't possibly end without saying it one more time: Thank you, Mazza!


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